


Digimon: Government Confines

by Trinity_Dragon



Series: Digital War [2]
Category: Digimon, Digimon - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Dystopian, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Language, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-07-25 02:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16187828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trinity_Dragon/pseuds/Trinity_Dragon
Summary: A long time before the events of Digital War, another legend was told. There are no planes. There is no Anshar. There is only District One, and a dark Digimon called DoyenGreymon has set himself as king over everything. When creatures from another world fall through the dimensional barrier, they begin to change the world and everything in it.





	1. The Hole in the Computer

**Author's Note:**

> What we have here is a stand-alone story that ties into my Digital War series. The store is referenced later on in Digital War: Campaign II, and some of the side stories that will come later. It is set in the Ancient Digital World, before the Advent of the other planes, before Anshar even had a name. It is divided into Districts, and all but the most powerful Digimon are slaves to serve the ruling class.
> 
> This story is much darker than the main series, and includes implied alcohol abuse, child abuse, rape and reference to torture. There are, however, no graphic depictions of such. Also includes mild language.

            Marcus Gray rode home with his parents from school. Currently, they were scolding him on the importance of respect for his teachers. He held his head in mock shame. This was nothing new to him. Marcus had portrayed the sorry young man that would never do it again far too often for his parents to know whether he faked it or not. Marcus _always_ faked it.

            “You _need_ to respect them,” his father repeated yet again. “They’re just trying to help you.” Marcus thought of him as a farce in human form. _Need_ to respect them? He just hated the fact that Marcus showed signs of delinquency. “Besides? Do you know what your mother and I went through to get you into that school? And you just want to throw it all away?”

            Marcus was almost eighteen now, and was continuously being sent home or given detention. Five schools had decided already that they did not want him, that Marcus was just too much trouble. He hated the schools, almost as much as he hated coming home.

            Mr. Gray always criticized him for his choice of clothing, telling Marcus that he looked like he belonged in a homeless shelter. Both his parents told him on a regular basis that his jeans were a too holy, and that if they faded any more, they would fade out of style. Previous scuffles with other students had taken a toll on his attire, and his shirt, though black, and still showed many bloodstains and bare patches of skin.

            Opening his eyes, his dead blue eyes staring straight into his father’s as he looked back at him from the front seat. “Maybe you should go live on your own for a while? That’ll teach you to respect the value of what they do for you.” He started the engine. “Of what I’ve done for you…”

            Marcus merely grunted an acknowledgement. Just what exactly had he done? He had packed the boy away like a dirty secret. Mr. Gray never spoke of his son to others, even out of frustration. He certainly never bragged about him. Instead, Marcus rarely left his room aside from school or meals. They hardly spoke to each other outside lectures like this. And as far as either of them was concerned, it worked fine.

            “They’ve given you a huge break and you just brush them aside.” His father kept his composure well after so many years of practice. Marcus could tell it was testing his patience though. The eyes staring back from the rear-view mirror were angry and disappointed. “What in the world made you want to take a chair to that kid’s head? What did he say or do? You know you can’t just hurt people for the fun of it.”

            Not that he actually took a chair to someone’s head… Sure, he had wanted to. He had even picked it up. He knew better than that. To be Marcus was to walk a fine line between troublemaker and felon—to know just how far he could push before the powers-that-were pushed back.

            Not only did the kid deserve it— _he_ had thrown the first punch—but Marcus had not even hurt him. A fat lip and a bloody nose: that was the extent of bodily harm. But of course, when the other guy had gone crying to the nearest teacher, Marcus was stood up in front of the proverbial firing squad.

            And no one cared to hear his side of the story, let alone believe it if he had actually spoken up. Marcus’s father would be the last person to believe him anyway. So he had balled his fists with full knowledge of the consequences, and knocked the pipsqueak on flat on his rear.

            “Marcus! Are you listening to me?” His father said, bringing the car to rest at a stoplight. The man turned to glare at his son, who sat with a grim, defiant pout. The man sighed and turned back to the steering wheel. “I don’t know why I even bother anymore.”

            Marcus looked up, taken aback. He had never known his father to say such a thing. He sighed as well as the car began moving again. Mr. Gray drove in silence back to their home, and Marcus pondered the abrupt end to the unusually short lecture. Normally, he could recognize the end of a lecture from miles away. If there were only one reason not to get into any trouble, it would be solely to avoid these little chats with his father. They bored the stuffing out of him.

            The car came to rest again in their driveway. The car doors slammed shut with Marcus padding silently up to his room to take a nap. He walked slowly, wondering why he felt his life was in shambles, or why no one ever bothered to get to know him. Once in his room, he tore into his covers and went to sleep. Sometimes, the world could be too much even for someone like Marcus.

* * *

            “Alice,” a voice called. “Alice Andrea Burns, get down here!”

            “I didn’t do anything,” Alice called back to her mother. “What do you want?” _Oh boy,_ she thought again. She knew the drill. She and her younger brother had been fighting again and their mother was now involved. It happened every night. She always fought with her brother. But she never hurt him.

            “How come he’s crying,” Alice’s mother’s shrill voice yelled back.

            Yeah, after invading her room and scattering its contents throughout the house, she was going to be angry. Nevertheless, Alice would never dream of _beating_ her brother even in the most severe cases. She had only roughed him up a bit, gave him something to remember that he should not do this sort of thing again.

 _I hate this,_ the though resounded in her mind. _I wish I could just leave and never come back!_ She only had two things she wanted to take with her _if_ she ever got away: pen and paper, which she kept on her person at all times.

            Her mother continued to scream at her and Alice let herself slump onto the bed and into a comfortable position. Her stormy eyes scanned the ceiling for any escape. Drawings littered the roof, mostly of fantasy creatures and otherworldly scenes. Absentmindedly she brushed away a lock of blond hair. For seventeen, she was exceptionally talented.

            She would have to try to explain herself again to her mother. The woman was drunk half the time. Never could she just settle down and sober up, and possibly use the government’s money to supply food and clothing for her kids. That was why Alice never beat her brother, because she had to take care of him.

            At present, this was one of the few times that she thought her mother had not been drinking, when she yelled at Alice for something of this nature. “I’m coming mom!” She stormed off down the hall and found her brother huddling close to his teddy bear, not his mother. _She’s drunk_ again _!_ _How many times do we have to go through this?_ “What’s the problem mom?”

            “Your brother—” there was a very noticeable slur in her pronunciation of “brother”—“just told me that you hit him again!” Alice could smell the alcohol and detested it.

            “Bro, did you really tell her that?” The little boy shook his head violently, indicating to Alice that their mother was the perpetrator. “So it was mom again? That figures.” He knew the difference between getting hit and being punished. A spanking was what Alice had given him for going through her things. A beating was what he had gotten from his mother after trying to give her some sign of affection.

            “Come on, Brent. Let’s go get us some dinner, bro.” He followed Alice out to her car, the only means of escape either of them had. The door closed behind them, leaving a drunken fool behind cursing them. Brent was too young to have to deal with that sort of thing, Alice thought. “Hamburgers?” Brent nodded.

* * *

            “Oh Mickey,” a deep but young voice said behind the boy. “I’ve been waiting for you to come on out.” School had just let out, and Mickey was on his way home.

            Michael Harris looked back. He was young, and unable to defend himself properly. “What do you want?” His knees trembled at what was to come. He knew what he wanted. It was the same nearly every day. Sometimes Michael’s torture would vary a bit, from punches to kicks to a black eye on good days. “Please leave me alone?”

            “Nope, you dope.” The bully laughed at his own joke and Michael found himself despising the “bully” humor. “All I want is the usual,” the bigger one said. “Any change you have, and then if it satisfies me we’ll skip the beating.”

            Michael emptied his pockets, desperately hoping for a few quarters to appease his tormenter. He found none and looked back at the other pleadingly. The bully sighed and shook his under developed head. “Sorry, Michael. You know the rules.” Five minutes later Michel was on the ground and trying fruitlessly to get up.

            He lied there for a while, thinking. How he wished he could defend himself, or that Sammy Johnston would just disappear. Michael was only a child, but he knew well that what he had just gone through was not right. And why was he always the target? Sammy knew that Michael had nothing on a regular basis, and yet he chose _him_ to beat up each day.

            Michael pondered away, laying on the sidewalk and not really wanting to aggravate his wounds further. Tears sometimes spilled from his eyes in torrents, and then dropped back to a mere trickle. It was sometime later before his mother found him. “Mama,” the boy questioned. “Mama, it hurts.” He sniffled and started crying into his mother’s arms. She picked him up and carried him off. 

* * *

            “Jerry,” the detention lady called his name. “Jerry Young.”

            “I’m _here_ ,” he said. Why he was there, he didn’t know. He had just been given a pink slip and sent off to the detention office. He leaned back in his chair. His brown eyes stared at the ceiling, waiting for the four o’ clock bell to ring. He wore a crap brown vest that had probably seen better days, and a dark T-shirt under that. _I don’t understand, all I did was close out one of those damned pop-ups._ The entire thing was nothing more than a misunderstanding that resulted in Jerry getting detention for a few days.

            He returned the front two legs of his chair to the floor and began his homework. Generally, he was a good student. This was his first time in detention so he had to ask where the detention room was. That got him another day because of his “smart mouth.” He had rolled his eyes and repeated the question, which only served to further his detention going days.

            Life, he assumed was an unfair business and he wanted no part in the reality he lived in. It was the kind of thing that sucked the marrow out of a man’s bones. Of course, he certainly had things to live for. His family was good, his home was nice, and his life was in appreciable shape. His high school career had set him up properly for college and then he would be attending some ritzy university in the spring of the following year.

            Afterwards, it would be back to work with his father, a lawyer. The family firm would be his soon, which bothered him not at all. His father had a very strict policy towards honesty in his firm: Just do it. Jerry did it as well. Young Cascade was one of the few decent firms left in the world.

            He finished his homework in a matter of minutes, and spent the rest of his time staring at the floor, the ceiling, or any other place that might be of interest. Finally, the bell rang and released him from his prison. He promptly grabbed his pack and dashed out the door. By the time he was home, the sun had almost set below the horizon. He walked in and down the hall to his room.

* * *

            It was night now, at the Gray house. Marcus was in bed, grumbling over his bad day when a loud beeping from his computer caught his attention. He had shut it down hours ago and thought it might have been malfunctioning. Marcus pulled his covers away and stood. He was still dressed in the same, rugged and worn clothes that he had been in earlier.

            He moved the mouse around a bit, ending the monitor’s stand-by mode. Writing appeared on the screen, scrolling marquee style and in big, bold red letters against the black. “ _We Need Your Help!_ ” He tried not to care and attempted to shut down the computer again; failing, he cursed.

            This must have been some sort of prank or virus. The one who did it was going to get a severe beating from Marcus later on. Only once did the thought that the message might have been real appear in his mind. He dismissed it just as quickly as it had come with thoughts of why _any_ one would want or _need_ Marcus’s help.

            He was not the helping sort. “Come on, you damn thing! Turn off!” He smacked the top of the computer with his fist and the screen flashed once, filling the room with a harsh white light. When it subsided, Marcus was nowhere to be found.  


            When he opened his eyes, the room was dark, except a few strands of light from the moon. He sat up, having been in a laying position, and lifted a blanket. “This isn’t my room.” By now, he had fully adjusted to the limited light. “So, where am I?” Suddenly, a light flashed on.

            A door closed. “Well, that was fruitless.” A tall muscular creature walked in the room. For all intents and purposes, Marcus thought he was a dragon. Blue scales, a single blade-like horn protruding from his head, and a thick tail only added to the allusion. “I hate my job,” it mumbled in a disgruntled tone.

            It turned its red eyes around to see Marcus sitting, wide-awake, wide-eyed, and equally disgruntled. _So he’s awake? Probably hungry as hell too. Food._ He stalked away, and returned a small while later with a tray of something. “I was hoping you’d be awake when I got back. What’s your name,” he asked irritably.

            “Wha?” Marcus still did nothing. The creature talked, it walked and it obviously lived in a rather nice apartment. He seemed almost human, except for the clear and all surpassing fact that it just was _not_. “Eh?” Someone was definitely going to get a good whooping when he found out who it was.

            “I said, what is your name?” Did the human even speak English? “Name? N. A. M. E. Eeeeennnnglishhhh?” He enunciated the last word in a particularly annoying fashion to Marcus, who took only slight notice.

            “What are you?”

            “Finally,” it sat down next to Marcus. “I didn’t know if humans could talk or not.” Marcus backed away. “Don’t worry, you’re safe for now. I found you lying on the road outside the city gates.”

            “Found me?” Marcus asked, his voice only now returning. “Where am I? And who brought me here?” The fire within him burned furiously now and he struggled to calm himself. He needed information right now more than he needed revenge.

            “Welcome to District One of the Digital World. My name is Pat.”

            “Pat?” Marcus took a piece of food from the tray. “Ok,” he sighed annoyed by the demeanor of this creature. “Where is the Digital World?” He inspected the food, and sniffed it. It smelt familiar, like dried meat. “And what are you.” He ate the dried piece of meat.

            “Yes Pat, as in 'down pat.' As in, II know how to do my job very well.” Pat set the tray between them. “The Digital World is ~~—~~ somewhere. I don’t know. As for your last question, I am a Digimon, an ExVeemon.”

            “A Digimon,” Marcus whispered to himself. Of all the stupid things he had heard of, this took the cake and ate it too. He looked over the Digimon, and finding no zipper or seam, decided that whoever was playing this prank was worthy of some esteem. Having pulled off a few practical jokes himself, Marcus was especially impressed with this one. The guy would not get a beating, he decided. He played along. “Do you know what happened to me?”

            “Not exactly,” the monster said. “I do know the legends though. You’ll probably want to hear about that.” Marcus nodded, smiling at how well rehearsed this was. “Well,” Pat stated, “to put it simply, you and a few other humans are going to free us. The _long_ version is too long except to say that you’re under a death sentence if you’re caught by the government.”

            “Government, eh? Keep going.”

            “A hundred something years ago, the old reign was overthrown. He was good, but someone thought differently.” Pat settled himself, dropping his tail between his legs. “Before MagnaGreymon—that was the old guy—was executed, he sent off a message to your world. The new guy found out about it and put a price on the heads of any humans who we just happened to find.”

            Marcus absorbed the information like a sponge. “So are you going to turn me in?” He nearly laughed at the whole thing. Such a lame joke! But it was executed so _well_. “You might as well! I’ve got nothing better to do!”

            Did he think this was some sort of joke? Probably, and only thought he was playing along. “No, this is no joke. You could very well get yourself killed with that sort of attitude,” Pat said. “And the only reason I’m not dead is that I work for them.”

            “What do you do?” He continued to lay back, relaxed and at ease. This was so cool to him! That someone went to all this work for something so pointless! He was inspired, almost to the point of versification.

            “Absolutely nothing for the government,” Pat answered proudly. “I transfer funds from the government to the resistance, behind their backs.” The reality of juggling paperwork was rather dull, but he served a vital function. If this human was indeed his partner, he would serve an even more vital purpose.

            But the human still thought it was a joke? Pat lowered his eyes and removed all trace of humor from his voice. “This isn’t a game. The potential you have as a partner is vital to the resistance. And the danger you are in as a human is serious.”

            Marcus sat up, furling his somewhat bushy brow. “You mean to tell me that _I’m_ going to save all your butts?” He almost snorted. The idea was preposterous at best. _Him?_ _That_ important? But Pat was still looking at him with those serious eyes—eyes that spoke of untold hardships and a losing shadow war.

            Everything functioned on the surface. Commerce continued; the banks still handed out money. But honesty and integrity? They had been done away with ages ago. A decent man could hardly make a living now. Marcus thought about his father, struggling to make a living for a dysfunctional family. He might not have had a future but for an act of divine providence.

            “Alright,” the human said, sobering.

            The ExVeemon breathed a sigh of relief. He had finally gotten through, if only just. The Digimon leaned back in his seat once more, still towering over Marcus. “Good. We need you. I don’t know how many other humans there are, or where they are. But we can only hope that were found by their partners.”

            Marcus nodded slightly. He was still having trouble believing it. But the gravity of Pat’s voice resonated with him. He looked over the dragon, wondering how he could be of any help. “What’s a partner,” he asked. “Don’t give me any dictionary term either. I want to know what it is that you want.”

            “All I know is that we’re one in the same,” Pat replied. He had never given it much thought in truth. His employment at the financial bureau kept him relatively safe as long as he covered his tracks. He lived comfortably, but safely, taking fewer risks than a rock. He lived in a box.

            But to be out in the open, fighting? That _was_ in most Digimons’ natures to do. _Most_. Patrick had never been the fighting type. His brother Mason, on the other hand, was crazy. That mad, mad Leomon loved to push boundaries. It begged the question, then. Why had Pat been made to be a partner and not Mason? Maybe it was something in the human. He seemed to be the exact opposite of Pat. He was unhinged, quick to anger, and seemed to be looking for a fight wherever he could find one.

            “Two halves of the same coin…” Pat continued absently. “Without you, I can’t do anything to help. And without me, you can’t survive here.” He saw the human nod again, with his now serious expression. The human was certainly in it for the fight, not the cause. “There’s no reward,” Pat warned.

            “Don’t need one.” Marcus narrowed his eyes. A chance to beat up baddies? He never considered himself a noble person, but any fight was a good one. And a knuckle sandwich to the right guy could be its own reward. Some resistance needed him? He could play mercenary for a while, he supposed.

            But it did go deeper than that, even if Marcus had not realized it. He wanted to do something to be proud of—to make his parents proud. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his mind, he wanted to do right by them. But he lacked the discipline, or so he was told. His instructors and peers looked at him as a ticking bomb, waiting to go off. A wild child that would probably end up in prison could never amount to anything.

            He lacked opportunity as well—opportunity to show his mettle. Marcus had tried at one point to earn good grades, make friends. Things had gone well for him for a few weeks, until someone had accused him of some frivolous incident—he hardly remembered what. Nevertheless, Marcus pronounced his innocence: He had been somewhere else entirely at the time.

            Past precedence won out, though, and his accuser punished Marcus for the crime regardless. It burned him, and he gave up. He became exactly what everyone said he was. No one expected anything from him but the worst, and he found it easier to give them what they wanted: An excuse to blame him.

            Now here he was, looking his future square in the face. Pat, this creature that had accused him of being a hero, looked at him, waiting. He expected something from the human, more than just violence, a bad attitude, or a smart remark. He expected hard work, effort; he expected a respectable individual.

            And Marcus doubted if he could live up to that. He would damned sure try, though. “I don’t need one,” he said again after a pause. “When it’s over, though, I want to go home.”

            Pat deflated immediately, trying to think of something to say. He had not considered the problem of sending the human home. How he even got there was a complete mystery. And that was nothing to speak of a method to send him back. He stuffed his face with a hand full of dried meat.

            “You don’t know?”

            Pat swallowed hard, the relatively unchewed meat sticking on the way down. “I--Ah heh!--uh, don't even know how got here..." Marcus glared daggers. “What am I supposed to tell you? Stable wormholes, time travel? That’s science fiction!”

            “You stupid reptile! You call me here, ask for my help, but don’t give me any way home?” Marcus found himself standing eye to eye with the sitting form of his partner, shouting at the top of his lungs. “You put my life in danger and you can’t even offer me a reward!” Of all the rotten deals he could have gotten, now he was stuck in an alien world with a loser “Digimon” and a death warrant out on his head.

            “Keep your voice down!” Pat urged in a furious whisper. He reached over and peaked out the window shades. “If they find out you’re here, you’re done for! I can protect you, but you have to trust me.”

            Trust him, the dragon says? Marcus slapped his forehead and laughed at the thought. He had left a relatively decent life, albeit it needed improving, behind just to have a would-be hero tell him to trust him. “You haven’t given me a reason.”

            “And neither have you! You won’t even give me your name.” He stood to his full height, soaring five feet above Marcus’s head, and took a step forward. “I don’t deserve this. I’ve done my part for the resistance, and I can continue doing it. But dealing with a petty, overbearing twerp like you is too much for anyone.

            “And for the record, small one, you might pick your battles wiser.” He took another step forward, forcing Marcus to withdraw from the dragon’s huge feet. “I could squash you like a bug, turn you in for the reward, or I could have let you rot in the desert sun outside the city. You may not trust me, but you owe me. I’ve already saved your life twice today.”

            With that, Pat took a final step forward. Marcus stared up at the angry, fanged frown of the dragon and tripped, falling on his rear with a thud. He still looked defiant, ready to fight the dragon toe to toe, even if it meant fighting from a ladder. But he was smarter than that, and having been properly chastised by someone bigger than him, much more reasonable. “Alright… My name is Marcus. Marcus Gray.”

            “Grey,” Pat asked as he extended his three-fingered claw. Marcus took it and the dragon promptly pulled him to his feet. “As in Greymon?”

            “No,” Marcus rubbed his shoulder, as the ExVeemon nearly tore it out of its socket. “Gray as in the color gray.” _Idiot._

            “ _Great._ ”

_My thoughts exactly._

_FIn_


	2. Angels From Heaven

            Jerry woke, his mind reeling. He blinked, shook his head once and blinked again. It was too dark to see anything properly for the moment. Besides that, Jerry was sure that he would not recognize his surroundings even he had not been so dazzled. That bothered him, not to know where he was. The only thing that bothered him more than that was the biting cold and the difficulty he was having trying to breathe.

_Okay, the last thing I remember is going home, eating some dinner and having a heck of a time explaining why I had just got out of detention…_ Something refused to add up. How had he got here—where was _here_ anyway? _Then I goofed off for a while and my computer froze…_ Could it have been something with his computer? _Woo…_ He took as deep a breath as possible. _Bright light from the screen, then I woke up_ here.

            “Are you all right,” someone asked. Up until now, Jerry had not realized that he was not alone wherever he was. The knowledge came to him with the understanding that whatever was now blocking the sun was also the source of the voice, which, in all truth was rather terrifying to Jerry. The thought of a voice so deep, from such a huge piece of… machinery?

            The owner of the voice was indeed very large, made of metal (at least it appeared to be metal), and had the appearance of—of all things—a dragon! It looked like a war machine. The large cannons jutting out of its back were clearly weaponry, and the hulk’s claws looked like they could pinch him in two. _Of course, yellow eyes are always a bad sign._ Whatever it was, it did not look friendly. In fact, it looked downright menacing. Therefore, supposed Jerry, he was entitled to be not only nervous, but in panic under the circumstances.

            “Are you all right,” it asked again. _Curse it! The child is afraid of me!_ That was the last thing that the creature wanted. Knowing what Jerry was, and knowing that this posed as a major breakthrough for the resistance, he was very sure that the human was his partner. “I will not hurt you,” he said, taking a step forward as delicately as possible.

            Jerry pinched himself and hoped that this was just a dream. _Oh God—oh God! I’m gonna die! I just know that thing is gonna squash me like a bug!_ He pinched himself again, still praying that it would not hurt. It, unfortunately, almost drew blood since he pinched himself so hard. He started scooting backwards, his breathing becoming deeper and much harsher. The monster followed him, a step at a time, shaking the ground with each footfall, until a dead-end stopped Jerry as he tried to scream when his back touched the wall.

            “I am not going to harm you, human,” it told him. “I am here to ask for your help. There is no need to be afraid of me, despite any prior circumstances.” The Digimon knew that what he said had no effect on the human’s mindset. However, words were forming on the human’s lips, who struggled to make them heard.

            “What are you?” The words barely came out. The Machinedramon heard them, however quiet they were. He could only imagine the difficulty that the human was having understanding that he was even alive. He had never met a human before, but supposed that his appearance did lend itself to some degree of anthropomorphism. The human had projected his ideas of good and evil onto Mech, and judged by appearance.

            The Digimon rumbled his own sort of sigh and might have rolled his eyes had he had actual eyes. Communication was important. But initiating it had become frustrating, waiting for the human to stop panicking. “I am a digital monster, a Machinedramon. You may call me Mech,” he replied at length. “What is your name, human?”

            Jerry, by now, _had_ come out of his panic, but he was still fearful of the Digimon. He was beginning to realize how cold his surroundings were, and how thin the air was. He must have ended up somewhere high. But there were few settlements at that altitude on Earth. Moreover, where did “Mech” come from? Nothing was making sense.

            Jerry licked his cold lips and tried to speak again. “‘Mech?’ As in mechanical?” The Machinedramon nodded. So the creature was a living machine? In spite his initial reaction to it, apparently Mech was benign. “Where am I?” _If not on Earth…_

            “You are in District Eighteen of the Digital World, human. Now, please, tell me your name. There are people around who would do you harm and I do not want that to happen.”

             “Jerry Young,” the boy replied, his voice a mere whisper. His fears faded, replaced by awe and amazement. This monster was truly a living being. And it wanted his help, too. What could a thing so possibly huge want from such a small and relatively simple mammal?

            When he asked as much, Mech snorted with a jet of steam out of his draconic muzzle. “That explanation would take far too long for the time we have now. For now, we must find you a place to hide. If anyone else saw your arrival, I am afraid the authorities will be upon us soon.”

            Jerry nodded, “I suppose that’s a good idea.” By now, he had fully realized how cold he was—almost to the point of freezing. He had found his voice, though it was still weak in the thin atmosphere. The mechanical Digimon beckoned him to follow. He still hesitated. A nagging in the back of his mind told him something was amiss, that Mech was not willing to tell him the whole truth. Jerry might have chalked it up to them just meeting, except for the fact that the Digimon had mentioned the “authorities.” Could he be a criminal of some sort, a fugitive?

            “I need answers first,” the human declared, looking Mech in the eye. “I won’t go anywhere until I know what exactly is going on. Where am I? How did I get here? And how do I get home?”

            Mech growled, feeling frustration again. Surely, fate had played a trick on him, to give him a partner that was so obstinate. “You are in the Digital World. Your other questions will have to wait for answers. For now, you _must_ come with me.”

            The finality of Mech’s command took Jerry aback. The Digimon did not seem like the type who was used to having his orders questioned. Jerry had the feeling that arguing did not bode well for him. The Digimon might very well leave him, or turn him over to whatever authority might be after him.

            That left Jerry with a choice. Did he go with the Digimon, letting his curiosity win over caution, putting his fate into someone else’s hands? Or did he trust his initial instincts and go it alone? For as many qualms as he felt, he had to trust Mech. _I don’t have a choice._ There was nowhere for him to run, and even if there were, he would still be stuck helpless in an alien world.

            “Alright,” he decided. Within another moment, a strange light overtook where the two were standing. It flooded the alley and spilled onto the main avenue where busy creatures somehow did not take notice. When it had subsided, Mech stood alone.

* * *

          Michael woke in a cold sweat. He felt something, a residual effect from a passing nightmare, of which he could not remember. The boy had the vague sensation of excitement, yet total fear for a dear friend whom he had not known for a long time. Combined with the darkness—even his nightlight seemed dim—the feeling left him nervous and breathing heavily.

            “Mom,” he called. “Mamma?” No answer came to him from down the hall, though there was a low murmur and a terrible smell starting to ventilate through the door-crack. There was also a faint light, as if someone had turned the knob on the hallway’s switch down to the low setting.

            Michael crept out of his bed, trying to stay as quiet as he knew how. As he neared the door, the mumbling became clearer and more recognizable and then passed into the realm of clear speech. It sounded like there were two of them. One was his mother’s clear alto; he perceived that almost instantly. The other was unfamiliar, though. It sounded angry, as if it wanted something that it could not have.

            The boy lay down on the floor, his eyes peeking very carefully under the crack. There, in the hall, was his mother, tears streaming and a large bruise starting to form on her right eye. Michael almost screamed when he saw her condition, only barely holding his voice in check. It was clear that this was something with which he should not get involved.

            A second person also stood in the hall, an inch or two taller than his mother; he looked dirty and disheveled. “Where is he,” the strange voice said in a subdued version of rage. “He’s mine, now where is he!”

            “You’re not getting him,” his mother retorted. Michael had to wonder who this strange man was, and why he had become violent with his mother. So many questions wondered in and out of the child’s head that it began to swim. “I won custody of him fair and square.”

            A hand grabbed the female’s arm and twisted while the man slapped her left cheek. She held her head up and glared hard at the man. “You’re drunk, and if you don’t leave now I’ll call the police.”

            “The police?” the man laughed. “If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that before I could buy Michael back!” The boy jumped, slightly, but a small squeak came out of his mouth. It was not loud, but with the hushed voices, someone would certainly have heard the exclamation. Michael saw the man’s feet coming towards his door and backed away.

            “I have a restraining order against you,” his mother said sternly. “Now get out. You can’t have him.” The man laughed again and there was a short pause in his footsteps. It was short lived, however, as he heard his mother shout again. “You brought a gun! What kind of a—”

_BANG,_ Michael finally broke his silence with a startled shout.

            “I won’t leave until I get my son,” Michael’s father said, just as a light thud sounded in the hall. Light suddenly filled the room as the door opened and the man stepped through. The boy screamed as he saw his mother dying on the floor. “Be a good boy and get up.”

            Michael did so, reluctantly, as his father waved the firearm around. He kept his eyes on his mother’s body, just barely breathing and watching in fear for him. Blood had started to pool around her, as Michael walked past. They were out of the bedroom door now and near the stairs.

            He still watched his mother as he began to climb down them. It looked as though she was trying to say something—something urgent. It was gurgled and difficult for Michael to understand. “ _Michael!_ ” she screamed at last, “ _run!_ ” Her last words were choked and then cut off abruptly as a second bullet entered her skull. After that, she lay lifeless on the floor.

            “Move,” his drunken father told him as he pocketed the weapon. The boy followed his father’s orders, too terrified now to do anything else. There was no need to wonder what had happened. The only thing that the boy needed to do now was to try to escape the man.

            Michael’s understanding of the events unfolding around him was rudimentary at best. But understanding was not required. He knew this man had killed his mother, and that he was likely to kill Michael as well. His mother’s words resounded in the boy’s head.

            Michael ran. He bounded down the stairs in twos and threes and fumbled with the locks on the front door. His father’s drunken steps made him fumble and trip down the stairs, hitting the first of two landings with a heavy thud. By the time he had recovered, Michael was already out the door.

            His home was soon behind him and the night dark and chilly. Michael heard his father running after him, cursing and shouting. _BANG!_ A shot echoed off the houses outside. Lights within those homes flashed on and curtains opened to reveal puzzled neighbors’ faces turn to horrified expressions.

            The child had not noticed any of that, however, and only concentrated on trying to get away from the man chasing him. He was running hard, and was tiring fast. His feet hurt, one shuffling in front of the other as fast as they could carry him. Michael turned right, down a side street before he realized that it was a dead end.

            As he came to the end of the road, he stopped and turned. His father was behind him still and coming up quickly, panting and running out of profanities to scream. “You gave me a lot of trouble, Michael,” he said, and then backhanded him. “That was _not_ a respectful thing to do.” _Click._ The man cocked the pistol and took aim.

            “Leave him alone,” a voice shouted from behind them. Michael’s father turned to see two men in uniform, side arms trained on him. “Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head,” the voice said again, firm and resolute.

            “No,” Michael’s father said, equally firm. He dusted himself off and inspected his weapon again, taking it from Michael’s direction. “I won’t.” He put the gun again to Michael’s head and started to squeeze the trigger. A shot fired, Michael squealed in fright and watched the lifeless form of his father fall to the ground.

* * *

          The child sat alone on a bench within a police station. He had spent the last half-hour recalling the events that had just taken place to one of the numerous uniformed men working that night. He had been having some unwillingness to tell them anything, not knowing them and distrusting everyone at that point. One of the other officers around him suggested that they give Michael a break and try to contact any other relatives that he might have had.

            One of them, a woman, had given him a mug of cocoa to warm up with and told him to get some rest. Currently he was sipping that cocoa, quietly and wondering what was going to happen to him now. That was when something caught his eye. One of the various computers in the vicinity was flashing very strangely. He watched it for a while, curiosity building and interest mounting. It was a welcome distraction to him and he quietly slipped off the bench and snuck up to it.

            Briefly, he wondered if it was such a good idea to be this close to the machine and then clicked the mouse without any more thought. The mug containing the cocoa hit the floor and shattered as Michael vanished. His world twisted and turned and his head swam. When he was able to see clearly again, Michael found he was outside in the night again.

            “Youch!” A heavy something just landed on an unfortunate Garurumon’s tail. Of all the happenings, or the places that that something could have landed, it just had to be his tail. Still, he inspected what had interrupted his goings on. Much to his surprise, it was—what was it? Human possibly? Whatever the strange biped was, it sprawled along the grass, resting uncomfortably on his appendage. It was small, frail and a pasty white like the Garurumon had never seen before.

            Michael, who had suddenly found himself face first on a bed of dry grass, looked up at the sound of the Digimon’s startled yelp. What he saw mesmerized him. He had always wanted a dog, but his mother had consistently told him that he was not ready for the responsibility of pet ownership—not that he quite knew what that meant. Just that it meant “no” was enough for him.

            Now, as he gazed over the large lupine figure, he could not help but forget that. Cream-colored fur covered its entire body, zebra-striped with bands of dark blue, ending with a long, stringy tail that twitched under Michael’s body.

            “Uh hmm…” it grunted, painfully, “would you mind getting off my tail?” The biped obliged, carefully picking himself up. The Digimon noticed that it did not seem to matter to that he spoke. Actually, it was as if the boy was preoccupied with something—him, for some reason.

            “I’m Garth,” the wolf said, doing his best not to agitate him. “I’m a Digimon, if you’re curious, a Garurumon. What’s your name?” There was no reply, which elicited a nudge from Garth. The human was stiff, and a bit cold. “Are you alright?”

            “Momma said I’m not allowed to talk to strangers,” Michael finally said, blinking. It just now occurred to him now that animals cannot talk. He backed away at the realization, but could not help but keep his eyes locked on the Digimon.

_Who is “momma”_ Garth wondered. His master? He had worked in the fields all his life and had never met a slave that called his master “Momma.” It sounded more like a term of endearment than a title. The creature must have been human, then. This meant, quite surprisingly to Garth, that he was the human’s partner.

            With that understanding, the Garurumon lifted itself off his haunches and stalked closer to Michael. “I’m a friend,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.” He tried to give the boy an encouraging nudge.

            Michael shook his head as Garth’s cold nose sniffed at him. He had never liked strangers anyway. Now that the previous few hours had cemented that, a look of utter horror passed over his face. He nearly screamed, but caught himself. Somehow, Michael thought that being quiet was the better option.

            The Digimon saw the look and wondered what he could have gone through to cause such a reaction. “I’m not a stranger anymore. I told you my name is Garth. What’s yours?” He laid down on the grass, a few feet from Michael and put his head down on his front paws. “If we know each other’s names, we won’t be strange anymore.”

            Michael cocked his head and nodded hesitantly. It made sense, he decided, though still unsure of that was what his mother meant. “I’m Michael…” He put out his hand politely.

            Garth lifted his head and blinked curiously at the strange gesture. Nevertheless, he put his right paw out and put it gently over the human’s hand, which grabbed one toe weakly and shook it a little before letting go. Perhaps now they were no longer strangers. He put his head back down and sighed.

            “Where did you come from,” he asked the human. Michael scrunched his face up thinking before he replied that he came from the computer. The reply, unintelligible to Garth, prompted him to ask what a computer was.

            “It’s a big box with lights that grown-ups sit at and yell at.” Garth nodded, still not understanding and recognizing that Michael barely understood the idea himself. “It was at the police station,” Michael continued. “I woke up, and someone was yelling… and then he chased me and the police came…”

            Michael ran out of steam there, having lost his train of thought to the jumble of memories. Now he sat silent, on the verge of tears. Garth looked him over and again wondered what horrors his new partner had just endured. _Momma…_ He had lost someone.

            “Momma told me to run…”

            Whoever Momma was, she had been important to Michael—so important that his face registered shock now, tinged with bitter grief. Garth felt compassion for him. He moved toward the boy, sitting next to him now with a paw gently on his shoulder.

            “You don’t have to run anymore,” Garth told him. “You’re safe with me. I’ll protect you.”

            “I wanna go home.” Michael was tired—tired from running, from all the questions, tired from just sitting and trying to stay awake long enough for someone—anyone—to comfort him. It seemed, for now, that someone had indeed come. He felt an affinity for this furry animal; he could trust Garth.

            He put his head on the huge wolf’s shoulder and closed his eyes, a few stray tears matting Garth’s fur. The Garurumon sighed and maneuvered the boy onto his back, then began carrying him home. Even before he came within sight of his hovel, Michael had fallen fast asleep, secured by Garth’s long tail. _Poor kid_ , he thought. He had not even noticed when a soft white light enveloped him briefly and Michael had disappeared.

* * *

            Alice opened her eyes. The sky was clear, except for a few bands of wispy vapor circling the sun. _Why am I outside?_ She sat up. The last thing she remembered was lying on her bed with her sketchpad and pencil, doodling—something—she could not exactly remember what now. She and her brother had gotten back from the restaurant to find their stinking mother passed out with a bottle of booze on the couch.

            She had tucked Brent into bed and then went to wash of the stink of alcohol with which she felt her mother had somehow permeated her. After a long bath, and a towel around her hair, she began sketching on her pad as she did every night. It was her only escape from the madness. Working part time on minimum wage, trying to support her baby brother while waiting for the emancipation papers to go through, was not much of a life. Nevertheless, she doggedly trudged on each day.

            She had to be strong—if not for her, than strong for her brother. She sighed and inspected her surroundings. Much to her disappointment, the grounds she sat on revealed nothing as to her whereabouts. _Where is this?_ Also to her disappointment, there was nothing but farmland around as far as her eyes could see.

            “Well, this is just great—I finally go to sleep and this is what I dream up… And I’m covered in dirt.” Just what were they growing anyway? The stalks rather looked like poppies, which she took to mean it was an opium operation. “And wonderful, more addicts!”

            “So you’re a human,” a feminine voice inquired from behind. There was a sort of growling quality to the voice, too, which caused Alice to turn around. “They call me Casey.” Maybe Alice was the addict. This had to have been a hallucination of some sort. It was too real, now that she thought of it, to be just a dream.

            What was a dragon doing in the middle of an opium operation? She was a female, at that, who—unawares to both of them—looked like a black duplicate of an ExVeemon. “So, opium-smoking dragon named Casey, am I hallucinating?” Alice asked, smiling sardonically and then standing. Casey shook her head.

            Whatever it was, it was vivid, Alice decided. She broke off a piece of the poppy-like stalk and gave it a sniff. It smelt different then poppies… more like a very fragrant potato.

            “No, not really hallucinating,” Casey replied, slightly taken aback by the inference that she was the proprietor of their surroundings. Why would a human assume that she smoked opium? Moreover, what was opium to begin with? The field she was working was of grain. “I’m real. You’re real, so is this field. And it isn’t my field.”

            At least, Casey was reasonably certain that the girl was human. Her education was somewhat sparse, and not well versed in such mythology as the Human World. Casey spent her days in the fields, slaving away—literally—picking through grains and stalks and filling bags before trudging back to her shack for the night.

            “You are a human, right?” she asked, an edge in her voice.

            Alice nodded, taking a good look at the monster talking to her. On closer inspection, she found many things out of place. The sun was not quite the right color, the plants in the field seemed too fragrant and more blue than green. And the dragon—Casey—was covered from head to clawed foot in scars.

            She put a hand on Casey’s claw, tracing one of the scars. “Where did these come from?” she queried, though she had a feeling she already knew. Had she really gone from one desperate situation to another? “Who beat you like this?”

            Casey had expected a long list of things from the human when she saw it. Compassion was not on it. No slave ever expected compassion, or sympathy. “My master, of course…” Then anger. The human’s face contorted to an expression of unbridled anger.

            “Your master?”

            Casey nodded, wondering why the human looked so surprised. Slavery was a very profitable business if one had the resources, and perfectly legal—if morally questionable. She knew it was wrong, but what could she do? She had no place to run, no place to hide. What if this human could help her escape?

            What slave did not dream of escape—of the mythical revolution that would free them? She looked at her prospective partner and saw a glimmer of hope on the horizon. “For now…” Casey said. She took a breath and saw the human did the same. She wondered if it had the same thought. “There was a legend, passed down for a few generations… about of a group of humans that would free us.”

            Most Digimon dismissed it as folklore. No one could confirm the legend, if MagnaGreymon had indeed gotten a message across the voids of space and time. She had not been sure humans even existed until now. She looked at the girl, silhouetted in the light from the setting sun, and wondered if the gods had really answered her prayers.

            “Angels from heaven…” she murmured.

            Alice looked at the Digimon blankly. She was no angel, and certainly not from heaven. But then again, considering the life of a slave, she might have lived in the lap of luxury. It was obvious that the Digimon needed help, and Alice had seen too much evil to let it lie

            Even so, what could a lone human do? Sheer determination would only bring her so far. She was no stranger to hard work. Enduring the life she had been dealt would have tested anyone’s limits. She could never fight an entire war, though, let alone win it. Even if she could, she had to get home, back to her responsibilities.

            Alice began looking frantically around, shaking her head and clenching her fists. “I have to get home,” she murmured, barely audible. She pondered shortly what she expected to find as she dug through the strange plants. An exit sign or a door lying open in the grass? She turned to the dragon.

            Casey scrunched up her scaly muzzle and shrugged her shoulders. She wondered if all humans behaved so strangely, and then wondered what was so important that this girl had to leave when she had only just arrived. The dragon asked as much.

            Alice halted her futile search. “I have to leave. My brother is there, alone, with that woman…” Her voice cracked as she replied, breathless and horrified. “He’s defenseless. She’ll beat him to death! I have to go!”

            The Digimon had no brothers of her own, nor any sisters, nor had she known her parents. The concept of family was only a vague notion. Of course, she had her fellow slaves, and she shared camaraderie with them, which their master brought about by their mutual suffering. The whip and the fields had stung them all.

            She nodded, understanding. If she were to leave her fellow slaves behind, somehow winning her freedom, she would most likely feel the same way. A burning guilt tugged at her now. With a human child, she had indeed won her freedom.

            And this human had left someone behind as well, to face a terrible fate on his own.

            “You protected your brother?”

            Alice nodded.

            “And you taught him to be strong.”

            “I tried,” Alice replied.

            “Then he’ll be fine.”

            The human fell to her knees, sobbing. Brent was her responsibility. She had been vying for custody of him since she was old enough to get a job. Everything she had lived for had been to alleviate their suffering at the hands of their drunken mother. Now, without warning, without even a choice, she had been torn away from that responsibility.

            Casey moved closer to the human and put her massive clawed hands on her shoulders. Alice fell into her, needing a physical and moral support of someone, _anyone_. The sat for a while in the stillness of the late afternoon, before a shimmering white enveloped them.

* * *

          Sometime later, Alice felt herself coming out of a stupor. She moaned quietly to herself. She had a terrible headache, and her feet hurt her. When she opened her eyes, she did not recognize any of her surroundings. The roof over her head was aged, and cracked, letting moonlight in through various holes. A small fire crackled in hearth in the corner, warming the one-roomed hovel.

            She sat up, feeling hay under her, and then realized she was completely naked. When she tried to cover herself, looking for a blanket, she then realized she was looking through the eyes of a completely different body. From head to foot, she was covered in the same black scales as the dragon she had met earlier.

            Alice tried to scream, but her something held her jaw clamped tight. She tried again to make any sort of noise. But the only thing she managed was to rustle the bed of hay she lay on.

_Shhh… You’ll wake the others…_ Alice remembered that voice. It was the dragon, Casey, from the field. The last she remembered was weeping into her arms. Then everything went black.

_You kidnapped me!_ She tried to move, to run, and found that her body had locked up entirely. _What are you doing? Let me go! What happened to me?_ She struggled with all her might, failing to move even an inch.

_You’re fine. You’re with me, in my body._ Casey let out an involuntary sigh. Alice seized the opportunity and managed to jerk one leg. They both felt it hit something soft, and heard the loud yelp of a large dog. _Now look what you did!? If he finds out you’re here, he may tell the master!_

            Casey regained a firm control over their movements, ignoring the screaming mental protest of the human inside her. She looked at the Garurumon whom Alice had accidentally kicked.

            Garth glared at her and growled softly. She had know the wolf for many years. He was long suffering, but had been known to run out of patience from time to time. “I’m sorry, Garth,” she said, pausing for a moment to reign in unceasing cacophony in her mind. “I guess my body has a mind of its own…” She paused.

            Suddenly Alice had quite struggling.

            The Garurumon said something and laid his head back down to rest. Casey had not heard it, as she was asking Alice if she were all right. Inwardly, Alice sighed in response. She was fine, now over her momentary panic, though still confused. _What happened?_

_I don’t know_ , came Casey’s reply. The room was silent, yet they communicated perfectly through their shared minds. _The last I remember, you were in my arms, and then you in me._

_We’re in the same body?_ Though she phrased it as a question, she already knew the truth. Alice’s consciousness and, indeed, her entire body, had somehow been transformed and merged with the Digimon. _Guess that means I’m in it for the long haul, huh?_

            Casey relaxed her control of their body and immediately felt their hand move to their face. _I think so. I don’t know why this happened, Alice. But I’m sure the gods have a reason._

            Alice inspected the three-fingered claw. It bore scars, just like the rest of their body, and she couldn’t help but wonder how the Digimon had survived such beatings. _Maybe to help you_ , Alice replied. She put the claw back to their side and rolled over. She felt strange.

            What would happen now, she wondered. _You said there were other humans? How many?_ If there were other humans, Alice had to find them. It might be possible to find a way home together. And then there was the matter of her no longer being human. Would the same thing have happened to them? How would they recognize each other?

_I don’t know. I thought it was only a legend,_ Casey smiled inwardly at her human partner. She hardly remembered how it went. But she was sure that it never mentioned a specific number. It was a forbidden tale, the likes of which people whispered in secret rebellion. She heard it once, when she was young, before she digivolved.

_There is one thing I should tell you, though_ , the Digimon said, making Alice take pause. Casey had a hard time deciding if it were good or bad news, though. She was used to being bought and sold, moved from place to place. She knew how to hold herself, and present her strong arms and sturdy frame to buyers, and how to tell a good slaveholder from the bad. Good, though, was a relative term in the slave trade.

            Alice prodded the dragon to continue.

_The other slaves and I are to be sold tomorrow at auction._ Everyone currently residing in the shack, in fact, were going up to auction. Alice almost panicked again, but managed to calm herself when she noticed Casey’s calm.

_Could we escape_ , the human asked? Casey’s reply was doubtful. The officiators would bind the slaves tight until the auction, and then placed them under heavy guard. _And there’s no way to incite a revolt?_

_Most slaves have no will of their own._ Their owners broke them, and dashed their hopes. Without a strong spirit, they only followed orders. Not even their survival instincts worked anymore. In that, Casey was blessed. She had a strong spirit, and had fought long and hard to maintain her will. _I should warn you what to expect, though. It’s not pretty…_


	3. Carry Me Home

Digital World, District One

             Pat checked the windows again and saw nothing but empty streets. A strict curfew, enforced by patrolling constables, began every night after sundown. After his argument with Marcus, he worried they might have piqued the interest of his neighbors, who likely would have reported the incident. Anything out of the ordinary was noteworthy to the authorities.

            He turned to Marcus and glared at him. “I don’t think anyone heard you,” he said, sighing in relief. “We should find a place for you to hide anyway.” There was no sense in taking any risks, he decided.

            Marcus snorted. Him? Hide? What a ridiculous idea. He was supposed to be a hero, not a coward hiding in the corner. “I don’t think so. Besides, who made you the boss?” He would rather have kissed a pig.

            Pat rolled his eyes. “Aside from me being bigger, stronger, faster and _smarter_ than you,” he began, drawing clinched teeth from the human, “I said so. And it’s for your own good.” Even if they had come to terms with being partners, he still found the human’s demeanor annoying. He argued constantly, even if he knew better. He refused to look at the reality that, for him, being in the Digital World presented a very dangerous situation.

            The Digimon stepped away from the window. A sudden rap at the door halted him in his tracks, and his red eyes went wide. The knocking continued. “Get down,” he whispered, gesturing wildly for Marcus to do so. “Get under the sofa!” For a few moments, Marcus just stood, eyeing the dragon as the visitor’s pounding became more urgent.

            “Pat! Open up!” the muffled voice shouted.

            “J-just a minute,” Pat replied, stammering. He jabbed one of his clawed fingers at the space between the sofa and the floor before ordering Marcus down there again. “If they find you, they’re likely to kill you. Painfully.”

            “Don’t make me break this door down! Let me in!”

            The Digimon gave his partner a pleading look. “I told you what they’ve done to people, what sort of tortures you could expect.” Rumors abounded about the horrors that DoyenGreymon had at his disposal. Whips and chains, starvation—they were only the beginning. His specialty was psychological torture. Isolation in cells just barely big enough to let a fully grown Digimon bend over, combined with subtle manipulations of the sense of the passing of time could lead a captive to believe he had been there for weeks, or months. In reality, maybe only days had passed.

            Marcus remembered the conversation vividly. In his quest for insight into this strange new world, he had stumbled frequently across the topic of DoyenGreymon. His leadership was tyrannical at best, bordering on psychotic paranoia at its worst. The Digimon, who Marcus learned was even stronger than the average Digimon, kept watch over every detail of his domain, making sure that nothing could challenge his claim to power.

            Yet it went even further than that. According to Pat, this Digimon was convinced that everyone was out to get him. He used living constructs to do his bidding—creatures without heart or soul, emotion or intuition. They were the perfect soldiers, built only to follow orders. Only when he was in need of spies or subversive agents did he use living Digimon.

            But Marcus represented his deepest, most long-abiding fear: Humanity. Long ago, when he had deposed and murdered his predecessor, MagnaGreymon—whom Marcus learned was also exceptionally powerful—he learned of a message, sent off to the human world across space and time. Any humans were to be executed on sight, as were any Digimon caught harboring them.

            This recount gave Marcus pause as a lump rose within his throat. He swallowed as he heard the rapping hand at the door become ever more insistent on getting inside. He suddenly had the image of a dozen armed guards rushing in and hosing them down with heavy armament.

            Marcus decided to do as Pat suggested, and ducked into the crawlspace. But, whoever was at the door was obviously _not_ are heartless Shutzdramon—the name of the living constructs. He heard the door open and Pat breath a noticeable sigh of relief.

            “It’s about time,” the voice said. It was deep and resonant, but had a wild undertone to it. “It’s freezing out there!” He saw the visitor’s feet—large, golden furred, and shaggy at the ankles.

            Pat breathed again. Mason had nearly given him a heart attack. As his brother, he was the only one who knew of his ties to the resistance. Not only that, but he had ties of his own. The government classified Mason as a terrorist. Certainly not as high up on the list as a human, but the Leomon had a knack for illicit activities.

            “What are you doing here?” Mason rarely visited—for the reason that he was constantly under surveillance. The Leomon scrunched up his muzzle in a look that said everything: he needed help, and fast. Pat had only a few contacts in the underground compared to Mason’s dozens upon dozens. If he were turning to the ExVeemon for help, it would be as a last resort.

            Marcus, meanwhile, took stock of his situation. An object, not much larger than a baseball, but very heavy, lay there under the sofa with him. He could defend himself if necessary—brawling was his business. But against a Digimon, he wondered, would he dare? He wondered if Pat really could protect him. His muscular body seemed strong enough, but he was passive.

            The conversation lulled and Marcus held his breath. Finally, he heard Pat speak again. “You can’t be here. I’ve got problems of my own to deal with.” Marcus saw the Digimon’s tail swish in front of him. “I can’t risk exposing myself to help you right now.”

            Could he even risk telling Mason about Marcus? Pat glanced to the human’s hiding spot. Mason was trustworthy, but unpredictable. He may tell the resistance, and if any of them were to be captured, the trail would lead them back to Pat and his partner. Therein laid one of the problems facing the duo.

            “You never had that problem before,” Mason countered, eyeing his brother warily. The Leomon knew, only too well, how much risk his coming had put on Pat. A scout had almost certainly followed him. The patrols should be arriving any minute. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t serious.”

            The Leomon had to deliver this kind of news in person. It _was_ their salvation, after all. After all this time. “Someone in the resistance found a human child, somewhere in District Eighteen.” As a Digimon, his senses were well attuned to changes in the bio-chemistry of other Digimon. The change that came over Pat hit him, therefore, like a battering ram.

            Marcus tensed under the sofa, hearing the news. He saw his partner take a step back. He almost gasped himself, in shock that the same magic that brought him also affected another.

            The timbre of Pat’s voice had changed noticeably. He was no longer the confident brother giving a scolding to his insolent younger sibling. He resonated with a mix of joy and fear. And try as he might, the dragon could not control his next words: “That’s a strange coincidence.”

            Even if he could have hidden Marcus, the uncontainable swell of excitement in his voice would have given the human away. Pat never did well keeping his emotions in check. It was a weakness he had tried to drill out of himself, but never could. He wondered if it would be a liability someday.

            Marcus heard his partner tell him to come out. The human did so without argument, eager to see this Mason. He had thought Digimon, being all made up of the same stuff—like humans—would all look similar. He had never paid much attention in biology, but he knew that all life on Earth shared basically the same genetic sequence.

            Thus, it was a look of mutual amazement that passed between him and the Leomon. A man, a head shorter than his draconic partner, covered in tan fur, and crowned by a shaggy golden mane, peered down at him. Marcus barely came to the lion’s belt-loops. Sure that Mason knew how to use the sword strapped to his back, Marcus decided it would be better off not making an enemy of the lion.

            Mason felt much the same. The news of a human child had spread quickly from District Eighteen. The mountaintop cities were no place for fleshlings—what little Digimon knew of them, at least—so the Digimon who found it set off immediately for District Twelve. Never, though, did he consider that he might actually see one of these legendary heroes in person.

            Of course, every Digimon loyal to the cause of freedom fantasized about having a human partner. Only a select few would ever have that opportunity. How they were chosen, only the Shadows knew. But it escaped him completely to think that someone other than him—and of all people, his own brother—could have been chosen for the honor of escorting a human partner.

            Finally, he realized that he was gaping at the human and closed his mouth. The human mirrored him, seemingly with the same thought: do not drool. “Where did you find him,” he addressed Pat. “Does he have a name?”

            “ _He_ ,” Marcus said indignantly, “is right here. And _I_ do have a name.” Marcus resisted the urge to give him a boot to the shin. At least Pat had had the decency to address him directly. “Pat mentioned you—briefly.”

            Again, the furry Digimon looked down at the human. He was feisty. Mason might have liked him had the human not been glaring at him so abysmally. He could see the defiance in his eyes and got the sense that the human gave everyone he encountered trouble. Mason wondered how the good-natured and generally soft-spoken ExVeemon had ended up as his partner.

            “Maybe the Shadows are trying to teach you a lesson,” he mumbled to no one in particular. “Whatever the case, this is astounding news! But we have to go.” Even as he spoke, the sense of impending doom grew greater in his mind. Step by step, the patrols would undoubtedly be surrounding the building.

            Pat would have replied, and Marcus might have had something to say also, except for at that moment, the window through which Pat had been peeking earlier shattered as a flash grenade exploded in their midst. Mason stood dazzled by the searing light as the door burst open and a host of Shutzdramon flooded in.

* * *

          The key to running any empire, he knew, was surveillance. The rebellion had made a tactical error in letting word of the human child spread so quickly. DoyenGreymon watched the monitor intently as one of his patrols surrounded a stone-façade building. Indeed, their error had been so great that it led him straight to a second human. _Fools._

            To think that they could challenge him? He was a master of covert operations; he knew every trick the resistance had to offer. He had been countering their insurgencies for years, like an endless game of chess. Not a fair game, by any means, as he had unlimited resources, and a brilliant tactical mind. Some might even say he was a genius.

            Indeed, he was, by his own admission. Vain though it seemed, DoyenGreymon had successfully out-maneuvered the resistance each time they cropped up. Sometimes it was a narrow victory, as a well-coordinated strike could leave him without key resources in an area—long enough for these insurgents to form an organized rebellion. More often than not, however, it was a rout.

            It amused him to toy with their hopes. Sometimes he would purposely let them achieve a small victory, just to dash it later. The pleasure derived from exterminating rebels almost rivaled that of his captives’ interrogations. Not only had DoyenGreymon developed as a tactician and strategist, but he had also learned the fine art of torture: to inflict enough pain to leave a victim conscious and alert, but enough to persuade them to give up any information in the hope of a mercifully swift execution later.

            Not that he ever showed mercy.

            The Digimon leaned his thin frame over the consol. Without his armor, he seemed much less intimidating. But it belied his true strength. Throughout the years he had suffered many scars, and had many segments of his body replaced with mechanical prosthetics, to the point where he required his helmet at all times just to breath. Tubes ran from it, down to his chest, where they attached to his lungs. More tubes ran from torso to limb, feeding blood and vital nutrients to his machine parts.

            Donning his armor, he was a vision from a nightmare. Crimson armor, polished to a shine, and his acid-yellow eyes peeking from beneath his lidded helmet, collapsed most Digimon into heaps of blathering flesh at the mere sight. All knew him, and all feared him. That was his mark, his empire.

            The monitor flashed with unexpected brilliance, blinding him. He blinked, then frowned beneath his helmet after his eyes readjusted. There were supposed to be three of them there…

* * *

          Marcus tried to blink, but found himself unable. He tried to move, and could not. His body refused to respond. But he felt dizzy, and then noticed the towering height from which he gazed at Pat’s apartment. He tried to speak, and managed a gasp when he finally, fully, realized what had just taken place.

            A giant metal horn sprouted from a blue muzzle, which moved of its own accord. Marcus’s vision was from the perspective of his draconic partner. _Holy hell! What happened?_

            Suddenly he started moving, again not of his own will. No reply came, as he felt a presence with him, instructing their shared form to do its bidding. There was no time for an explanation. He saw, and then felt, his fist collide with the nearest Digimon to him. Its white, plastic armor crumpled and its gas-mask helmet shattered with the impact.

            The vaguely draconic Shutzdramon deflated instantly with a ghoulish hiss and another one took its place. Drawing a pistol attached to large canister mounted on its back, the soldier-Digimon attacked, shouting its attack, “Gestapo Pistol,” in a disconcertingly mechanical voice.

            Mason answered back with a shout twice as loud and a punch even harder than his brother’s. A burst of fire streamed from him as he called the attack, “Fist of the Beast King!” The mindless mechanic vaporized immediately. The attack incinerated two more Shutzdramon still pressing to get through the broken door.

            It gave both Mason and the shared form of Pat and Marcus time to escape outside, where restriction of movement was no longer an issue. Pat spread their wings wide and shouted his own attack, “Vee Laser!” Marcus felt the energy swell within them, then burst out of the x-shaped marking on their chest.

            Mason had his sword out now, hacking the white plastic suits to bits with wild leaps and powerful lunges. Pat made a flying kick in the same fashion and landed them square atop the suit’s chest.

            “What are you doing? Go!” Mason called over the din. The ExVeemon carried with him precious cargo. The time wasted on demolishing a few mindless flunkies was nothing compared to the greater whole. Mason shouted again, urging his brother to flee, before launching another salvo of flaming fists.

            Marcus, unable to do anything, but shout at his partner mentally, saw the logic in Mason’s command. He, too, urged Pat to flee. He heard a mental sight deep within the shared recesses of their minds, and then felt his partner spread their wings and take flight. Several volleys of laser fire arced up at them as they fled, and left Mason behind to fend for himself.

* * *

         Jerry roused from his slumber and found himself to be inexplicably taller, moving, and surrounded by what looked to be a desert caravan. He looked to his left and saw teams of four-legged beasts driving large trailers, filled with crates and piloted by what he assumed were digital monsters—much like the one he had met earlier. He wondered where Mech was.

            _I am here, Jerry,_ the perfectly modulated electronic voice announced. _Word of your arrival spread quickly in the resistance, Jerry. We are traveling to another district of the Digital World._

            The human almost breathed a sigh of relief. It was then that he caught sight of a metallic gleam where there should not have been, and looked down. In place of his tall, athletic body, a three-pronged claw, attached to the hulking form of a mechanical dragon, greeted him with heavy footfalls as his body continued to move of its own accord.

            Mech thought subtlety to be the best option, given their current situation. Before Jerry could take a breath, the Digimon exerted his iron will and clamped down the urge his human felt. Given their first encounter, the advantage of hosting the human’s consciousness gave him the ability to stop the panic before it set in—something for which he was thankful.

            As a rule, Mech kept a low profile. The caravan with which he currently traveled was looked like a traveling market. Many such things existed, traversing from town to town, between cities all over the Digital World. His traveling with such a convoy would arouse no suspicions. However, the fact that he owned the trading cartel in question was one that escaped the attention of even the most studious of foes.

            As he told Jerry this story, the human quietly listened, his silent amazement growing more and more. The living machine, which, by now, Jerry had learned was a key benefactor to the resistance movement, came by his riches many years ago during the coup that overthrew the former monarchy. With them, he bought and sold commodities, which in turn brought him into more wealth.

            Mech was a businessman, shrewd and calculating. He found the life be perfectly suited to him. His programming allowed him to run through many possible scenarios at a time, and calculate the odds of success. By nature, he was drawn to the life. He was, after all, a machine.

            But it was curious, especially to him, how he had developed a conscience. After witnessing the atrocities of the revolution, his solitude gave him time to think. Somehow, even without having a heart, he had been touched, aggrieved, even insulted by the treatment of prisoners. Something inside him recoiled at the thought.

            _So you came out of hiding to help?_ Jerry had gradually settled down, and now looked in wonderment at his partner’s massive frame. The vantage point afforded him gave him a view of the entire procession, some one thousand strong. _Were you programmed to have a conscience?_

            The human felt his head shake.

            _No._

            There was a touch of guilt to the answer. It was strange, he decided, to feel the emotions of another being so deeply. He wondered what could have provoked such a guilty response if all Mech had done was hide during the war. Once again, it seemed like his partner was hiding the truth.

            _How did you come by it, then?_ Jerry asked, realizing he had let his mind wander. Then he wondered if Mech knew what he was thinking, and decided no. If the Digimon could hide his secrets so well, it was unlikely that he could penetrate Jerry’s inner thoughts.

            Mech did not usually share his personal information with others. Whether it was for fear of it catching up with him, or that he preferred to remain as professional as possible, he had never been able to decide. Even now, he felt the temptation to retreat back to his stoic persona.

            But this human… He considered the matter intensely. How could such a small specimen—no, specimen was not the right term. How could such a small, seeming insignificant— _friend, person, fleshling?—_ be so disconcerting as to throw off his mental balance? He wanted to remain at arms-length of Jerry. Emotional attachment was an alien concept.

            He had dealt with his attachment to the resistance movement. He reasoned that if he were to help the cause, it would benefit the whole of the Digital World, and therefore benefit him. The calculations and simulations all came to the same conclusion: it was a financially sound investment.

            But Jerry—his mind reeled at the thought. He had known this human for so few hours, and yet his incessant questions filled Mech with his own queries that, until now, he had never even thought to ask. How had he developed a conscience, a heart, so to speak, if his programing dictated otherwise? How was it that he had begun to experience emotions, when he was only designed to be so much?

            How did Mech ever exceed those limitations? And why did he care? He had stumbled upon the human in an alley, unconscious and half-frozen. Of course, his research into the resistance led him inevitably to the legends spawned by MagnaGreymon’s last words. “They will come” was a phrase often uttered with hope by the denizens of the Digital World. He dismissed it as mere folklore, though, and brushed it from his memory like a piece of dust from chrome armor.

            Yet when he saw the human, knowing exactly what it was—for what else could he  have been?—he knew he was destined to save the child’s life. He had expected Jerry to be fearful at first, and then grateful later for the deed. But he had failed to consider that the boy might care for him as a friend. Somehow, though, that was the outcome. The human’s questioning of Mech’s past, his ideals, was proof of that.

            It forced the Digimon to admit to himself, finally, that it was for more than just his financial stake that he helped the resistance. He blinded himself to the fact that his caravan was made up almost entirely of freed slaves. He bought them out of compassion, to relieve their suffering, then gave them work, room and board, food, and then gave them their fair wages on top of that. Any of them had the option to leave.

            So why did they stay? No one ever called him master. He did not own them. But they called him Sir, and they were happy to continue working, applying their strengths and weakness wherever he deemed them necessary. He evaluated their specialties, gave them education where they lacked it.

            Of course, it was financial gain. He ran a business, not a charity. Nevertheless, he felt a desire to help them, even if it were at his expense. He could easily have hired from the current labor pool. The simulations showed no discernible difference in productivity. Yet one way or another, it would have been different, he reasoned.

            _Mech?_ Jerry queried, wondering about his partner’s long silence. If it were possible, he would have gave his metal head a rap on the noggin to snap the mechanical Digimon out of his trance. _Mech? Are you all right?_

            _Yes,_ he said at last. _Forgive me, Jerry. I was running some calculations._ In a sense, it was the truth. Half-truths came almost easy to him. But again, he felt the taint of remorse, telling that to his partner. He tried to shake it off. _What was your question? How did I develop a heart?_

            Jerry answered positively, going into the details of his question. The how and the why always interested the human. The knowing of a person, his motivations and dreams, translated to his thought processes as character research. By knowing real people, and learning about them, he could better create his characters.

            _I believe it was a malfunction,_ Mech stated simply.

            A malfunction? Did Mech really believe that, Jerry wondered to himself. How could he, when all of what he created, he also designed to aid in the defense of freedom? Self-sacrifice was a choice. He refused to believe it, and once more had the feeling that Mech was deceiving him.

            Jerry questioned his partner on this too. The reply was ambiguous at best. Mech claimed financial gain, but sounded doubtful as to the truth of it, as if he was trying to convince himself as well. Mech’s story, though, appealed to Jerry. Not just his ability to tell the story, but the tale itself engaged the human.

            Here was someone whom Jerry could admire for more than just his accomplishments. The boy’s father was a masterful lawyer and a man of integrity—a living conundrum by most opinions. Jerry was proud of him. The man was blind, though. Jared Young Senior spent so much time trying to lead by example, that he thought the only right way was his way.

            Jared Young Junior disagreed. He found the practice of law an admirable profession, but lacked the enthusiasm to pursue it. Jerry’s passion came from language—the formation of words into sentences, striking the right tone to invoke a certain emotion from a reader. Peers and teachers received his forays into the literary arts well. At only seventeen, he had completed every literature and language arts course his school offered.

            Now he was onto self-teaching, putting his work out over the internet for his fellow writers all over the world to read. He spent a lot of time on his craft; forsaking food and drink, and even sleep sometimes, getting to know his characters and crafting their legends. That was why Mech’s tale held him so. He felt himself drawn into one such story—one of strife, struggle and heroism.

            He felt like a character from his own story.

            A sudden announcement by his partner finally snapped him back to reality. Realizing that Jerry had drifted off, as he had previously, Mech repeated his message. _The sun will be setting soon, and it is not safe to travel at night. We will pitch camp here for the time being._

* * *

          Pat and Marcus sat perched atop the central city’s wall. They had managed, thankfully, to outwit and outrun the patrols. Behind them, the city lights glowed, and before them, the thin band of oasis that ran around the city gave way to desert after only a hundred yards. They looked back. A tower, high and menacing loomed black in the heart of the metropolis.

            “What is that place,” Marcus asked, hearing the strangeness of his words. He spoke using the Digimon’s deep bass. He would never get used to sharing a body, he decided.

            “That’s the palace complex,” Pat replied in the same voice. It was his former place of employment, where he had worked safely from the shadows. That was over, now, he knew. The instant he had discovered Marcus, he knew he would have to leave his life behind. His regret was almost tangible.

            Then there was Mason. _You’re sure Mason is okay,_ Marcus asked him. He did not know why, but he felt compassion for the Leomon. He might have given his life so that the two of them could escape. No one had ever given anything for Marcus, let alone a life. Could he really be that important?

            “He’s a strong fighter,” Pat said. “And he’s been in tougher scrapes than that.” But even he wondered if the odds were too great. The two were opposites in almost every way. Pat chose a studious, book-wise life. He was no fighter. It should have been Mason to take up the role of Marcus’s partner.

            He was the warrior in the family. The lion-man spent his whole life scraping with others, testing his mettle, and butting heads. Why had the Shadows chosen him? Why? He hated the government, what they did, the terror they inflicted. But was the wrong man for the job. If it were not for the fact that he was a fully evolved Digimon, he doubted he could have made a dent in the ranks of those Shutzdramon.

            What if they had been stronger? He had a hard time imagining him taking on an ultimate level Digimon, even if it were just him. But he had seen Mason fight before. With his sword drawn, its flaming tip slicing up enemies, Mason was nearly unstoppable. In the first few moments of the fight, he had taken down several of the attackers with just one of his attacks…

            Marcus was different though. He had felt the burst of energy release from their attack. It was incredible. “You weren’t so bad yourself,” he said, genuinely amazed at the power behind his partner. How is it that he refused to use _that_ against this evil he railed against?

            “I’m no fighter, Marcus,” came the answer. He sounded pathetic, even to himself. “Do you have book smart people in your world?” Yes, of course there were. Marcus was the other type, though, and had never really known any. “You know one now, then. The same two kinds of people exist here. There are Digimon that devote themselves to fighting—whether it’s for a cause, or just for the thrill of exchanging blows with the best of them, they fight.”

            Mason. Most in the resistance were that type. They had to be, or else the government would hunt them to extinction. “Then there are Digimon like me. I look strong on the outside—maybe even unbeatable to a human—but if I were to try and fight in earnest, I would be killed outright. We survive by cunning and wit, by staying in the shadows and using our intelligence to undermine the authorities.”

            Was he serious? Maybe he had not noticed, but Mason looked almost astonished to see his brother release an energy beam that powerful. Marcus had no experience in the matter of Digimon attacks, but he knew potential when he saw it. And in this case, he had felt it firsthand. Given the proper motivation, anyone could beat the odds.

            Inwardly he smiled. Maybe that was his role here. Honestly, he doubted he could save the world. That was too big a job for anyone, even someone as confident as he was. The wisest of men would not attempt it. They would tackle the problems around them, and hope their small effort contributed to a greater whole. So it was with Marcus, that he decided to give his Digimon something he had never given before.

            _I think you could do it,_ he told Pat. _You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Even Mason saw it._ Between the two of them, he and Mason, they ought to be able to tell if someone had the right stuff. Marcus was the best human brawler he could think of, and Mason was his Digimon equivalent. “We’re experts, you know.”

            “You’re so self-important, Pat!” Mason’s bright tenor sounded from below. “Get down here! You’re making yourself a target!” When the two looked down, sure enough, the Leomon stood out in stark contrast to the dark foliage of the oasis belt.

            The ExVeemon glided silently to the ground. He smiled, unable to express the joy he felt. Fortunately, he had Marcus there to express something. “You’re still alive? We didn’t expect to see you again.”

            “We? Where’s the human?” Mason had lost sight of him when the fighting began. But when Pat had managed to escape, he would have assumed the human was with him. Most of the patrol had followed his brother, leaving Mason only a smattering of white plastic suits to deal with.

            Pat clamped down on Marcus, refusing to let him speak again. “Forgive him,” Pat said, sounding more like himself. “He’s… inside me…” Even he thought it sounded strange. He might talk himself to death trying to explain what happened, but the two involved could hardly fathom it.

            “You ate him!”

            Ate him? What? “No! Are you crazy?” Pat was taken aback by the accusation, genuinely disgusted at the thought. He loved meat, and briefly considered it as a solution to Marcus’s initial attitude. But concern for his world won out over annoyance. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

            “Then where is he?”

            Pat shrugged his shoulders as he said, “He’s inside me. I don’t know how it happened, but somehow, when the fighting started, his voice was in my head and his body was nowhere to be found.” Then again, he had not looked either. For all they knew, Marcus’s body was nothing more than a bloody corpse back at the apartment. Just his consciousness may have survived.

            The thought did not appeal to Marcus at all. _Wait? We might be stuck like this?_ He began shaking their head, putting their hands over their eyes. The three-fingered claws filled his vision and he shut their eyes to block it out. _We can’t be stuck like this. It’s not possible!_

            Mason took a step back, wondering who was in control of this strange behavior. He knew his brother to have attacks of nervousness, sometimes at the most inopportune times. But it may well have been the human, wallowing in his own string of fears and insecurities.

            “Are you alright?” he asked.

            Pat took back control of his body, though sometimes he twitched with Marcus’s emotions roiling inside him. “He’s worried we might be stuck like this. I can’t say I blame him.” _I can feel your anxiety, Marcus. I’m sure it isn’t permanent._ Destiny was not as cruel as that, and the Shadows would never ask for such a sacrifice. Maybe they would ask for Pat’s life and body, but not someone’s whom they had dragged into this unwillingly.

            It mattered little now. The deed had been done, and like it or not, Marcus and Pat were a part of each other. Whether the Shadows wrote it in the stars, or if it were a fluke chance, the human found himself inextricably bound to his partner. While he hoped it was only a temporary arrangement, though, he could not help think of the experiences he was having. Already he had taken flight under his own strength, had given a squad of fighting machines a run for their money, and started a revolution.

            The question now was where to go. Mason was quick to provide the answer—District Twelve. Out over the desert, far to the east where the climate was ideal for growing, the twelfth district dealt primarily with growing food supplies to feed DoyenGreymon’s ever-growing industrial machine.

            “District Twelve is all farmland,” Mason said, turning to the east. He had been on the move since early morning, and it looked as if there were no rest in sight. It was normally two-day’s journey to the only major city in the vicinity. But they could cut that time in half by cutting out rest stops. If they traveled at maximum speed throughout the night, they could be there by late afternoon the next day.

            That was if Pat could last the whole way. Mason suffered no illusions that his brother lacked the same stamina as he. And then there was the matter of the human, who would undoubtedly complain the whole way. “We had best be getting a move on,” he said. “The patrols will know we got away.”

            “They’ll know where we’re going, too,” Marcus reasoned.

            _It’s a long way,_ Pat warned him.

            The human only smiled. If there were one thing he excelled at other than fisticuffs, it was endurance. _Besides that, I figure one of us can sleep while the other walks, and we can trade off every once and a while._ Clearly, his partner had not thought of that. _Since I’ve had the most rest out of us, I volunteer to take the first shift._

            Pat was grateful, though he was unsure if Marcus was being kind, or if it were purely out of pragmatism. He suspected a little of both. The human, he decided was a conundrum. He spoke of fighting and self-reliance, needing no one and having little respect for anyone but himself. Yet he so far surprised Pat with flashes of insight and empathy. Marcus, in some strange way, had begun to grow on him.

            Putting aside the literal truth of it, Pat wondered, too, if their meeting of minds was a permanent fixture. If it they separated somehow, would Marcus abandon him and his cause to search for a way home? After all, his current kindness may only have been out of necessity.

            What good would it do him to doubt his partner, though? He tried to brush away the uncertainty. Marcus would not leave. He could not leave. There was no way home, so far as either of them knew. Moreover, even if there were, Marcus, before they merged, had agreed to stay and fight. That proved it, did it not?

            Pat wished he knew.

  _Fin_


	4. The Auction

            Casey had not been this clean in all her life. Preparing for the auction was at best an ordeal. She had been scrubbed, scraped and sponged almost until she bled. Even this basic courtesy was only for show, however. It was purposely made to be painful—she now endured a light acid scrub to wash away the top layer of her scales—to remind her that even though she and her fellows were being treated to this, they were still only slaves.

            They and the other slaves had been taken to the auction sight, and then into an ornately rich room which had been divided into sections by an opaque curtain. Alice wondered if it were for privacy, or if it were for isolation. She heard the grunts and growls of other Digimon, and the voice of the Garurumon from the night before. He howled once, and then remained quiet.

            Alice took the brutality in stride, though she chafed under the hostile glares from their washers. She wanted to shout and fight back. She abhorred the practice—she had been abused herself for many years. But unlike them, she had been able to work for her freedom from such humiliation.

            All the while, the human asked how Casey could manage to endure it for so long. It was all the Digimon had ever known. She winced as a harsh scrub-brush raked over the stubs where Casey’s wings had once been.

            _They cut them off when I was young,_ she told Alice. The law forbade slaves to fly, that they might escape, or fight back. The doctors had performed the surgery precisely and cleanly, as to cause no permanent damage. Even so, the nerves where her wings had once been seemed to catch on fire. _I’ve never known anything else._

The washer dumped a bucket of hot water over them, rinsing them of the acid wash and giving them relief at last. Casey closed her eyes and held her breath, dipping her head below the water to wash any stray debris from her. When at last she came up, and opened her eyes, she felt Alice’s amazement.

            When they had met, Alice had taken great care to notice every detail, that she might record her perceived dream later. After she had realized it was no dream, that the monster in front of her was indeed real, she had taken even greater care to notice such details. That was why she had a hard time catching her breath after the washing—for when she had met Casey for the first time, her scales had been ebon black.

            Now, in the light of the morning sun filtering through the windows, then taking on a softer light as it filtered through the curtains, the wash revealed her skin not to be black at all. Instead they were of a deep shade of blue, almost midnight, making her ivory claw tips and chest stand out starkly like a full moon.

* * *

            In another section of the inordinately decorated room, Garth and his human guest underwent their own form of torture, finding themselves at the end of a coarse brush, yanking knots out of Garth’s freshly washed fur. The Digimon winced as his captor yanked another knot out.

            He took it silence, letting out only the faintest of yelps when the bulky Digimon grooming him accidentally stepped on his tail. More to his amazement though, was how quiet the human within was. It was as if he had suffered all his life, and had learned to defy his tormenters by stubbornly refusing to cry for mercy. In fact, Michael had hardly spoken all morning.

            _When we are free,_ Garth told him, tail twitching, _we will never have to go through this again._ And soon they would be free. Michael could not have been the only human in his world. After all, he was so young, he could hardly hope to win their freedom. So what was the purpose of sending such a small child to such a hostile world.

            Michael could have wondered the same thing. But he had only a vague notion of the duties thrust upon him. Garth had only told him that he would be a hero, and that it would be hard work. Michael could do hard work. He had helped his mother all the time. Clean up this, she would say. Could you get that, she would ask. And Michael always would.

            Even so young, he could tell when his mother was tired. She would pick him up from school, drive him home, and set to work on fixing dinner, even though she had been fixing other people’s dinners all day. Michael never heard her complain, so why should he? So he would climb up on chairs, grab plates from the cupboard—trying his hardest not to let them slip out of his hands—and carefully set the table for two.

            Somehow, though, he felt that was not what Garth had in mind. The furry Digimon had told him it was not that kind of work at all. When asked what kind of work it was, Garth had replied that it was also a matter of standing up to bullies; people who Michael knew all too well.

            That was when Garth asked him why he was afraid. The Digimon knew something had struck a nerve. But Michael never elaborated. The human had only told him that he was not sure. Garth had not pressed him any further, but changed the subject.

            _You’ll see lots of Digimon,_ he had said. Of course, Michael had already seen his fair share that night, as they came home. The hovel where Garth slept was full of Digimon, of many different varieties. Michael looked in wonderment at many of them, thinking some to be pretty, others to be not so much, and some even frightened him.

            The Garurumon had laughed at that. No one there would dream of hurting anyone. He was not even sure they were capable of it. Most of his fellow slaves had the will to survive beaten out of them. Only a small few defiant ones, like him, were left with spirit enough to dream.

            He dared them to try and break him. His new master, whomever that might be, would definitely test him—try to see how far he could push before Garth would push back. But he was a Digimon; he knew how to fight, how to bite and claw. And at the first opportunity, he would set himself free. This new master had no idea what he was getting into, buying Garth.

* * *

          The city was not much of a city at all. A small wooden wall guarded it from any would-be invaders, but the desert was a much more formidable defense. The desert would leave any army attempting to cross it half-starved and twice baked before reaching the modest city wall.

            Except those who had traveled prepared, and had proper business to conduct within the city, no one was allowed entry. Guards greeted Mech and his caravan coolly on the hot day as they approached the timber gates. Jerry found himself becoming nervous as the guards checked his partner’s identification.

            Mech had been there before, though, and had an excellent business record. The guards, realizing he was a major benefactor of the slave industry—buying up many for a handsome sum of money—let him through with little more hassle than it took to open the gates. The caravan waited in the outskirts, however.

            The sun had already raised a third of its arc into the sky, signaling late morning, and that the auction would begin shortly. _This will not be a pretty sight,_ Mech warned his partner. _Many of the slaves have been disfigured. Others will be so downtrodden that the idea of freedom is unfathomable._

            Jerry scowled at the thought. He abhorred the idea of buying _people_ , even if it were to give them freedom. The notion of treating living, sentient beings as property made him nauseous. But, he had to remind himself, Mech had been doing this for years, quietly dwindling the slave supply—and managing to keep it secret.

            _Where did they all come from anyway?_ From what he had discovered of the Digital World’s history—not much, to be sure—slavery was a recent development. Before DoyenGreymon had come on the scene, there was no such thing. So, he wondered, how were these Digimon selected for slavery? Aside from the obvious difference in species, Jerry saw no distinguishing features at all, that the authorities could use to justify their bonds.

            _They were born into slavery,_ Mech replied. _Their parents were slaves, and their parent’s parents were those that defied DoyenGreymon when he rose to power._ The muddled history that the tyrant had spun said that they were violent dissidents, and that the only way to protect the population without wasting resources was to either kill them, or put them to work. _Claiming slavery was more humane, he put them to work._

            By now, they approached a cloister of wide, flat buildings made of clay and timber. According to the Digimon, this was the sight of the auction. Three of the wide structures formed three sides of a square, with a courtyard in the center, and a series of smaller buildings—shops of some sort—lining the left hand side of the courtyard and a little of the open side.

            Another detachment of city guards patrolled the area, setting up a picket line to check the identification of all incoming traders. Again, Mech filed through with his heavy footfalls and presented the soldiers with his papers. Once examined to their satisfaction, the sentries handed them back and allowed the metal giant to proceed.

            Immediately, Mech headed for the farthest of the three buildings. _They will be preparing the slaves for auction in that building,_ he told Jerry. They had to duck, but managed to squeeze through the oversized door. Being mechanical, Mech’s eyes adjusted instantly to the reduced light of the facility. _Be prepared._

            Jerry was not. The sight before him was of wash basins and scrub brushes, carried by professional groomers, who in turn set to work on scrubbing Digimon down. Many of the Digimon had been rubbed raw, some of them bleeding, others howling in pain. All of them bore scars of some sort, and none of them made eye contact—afraid incurring the wrath of a potential master.

            _How are you going to free so many?_ Jerry asked, amazed. He could not be sure, but he counted at least fifty in this building. There was no way he could—even with all his riches, the act of buying so many dozens would surely arouse the suspicions of the industry leaders.

            _I don’t plan on freeing all of them,_ Mech replied. His tone seemed neutral, but Jerry heard a hint of sadness. The Digimon tried to remain professional, even in the midst of something as detestable as this, but Jerry felt his emotions. Even now, they were an inconsolable tide.

            _I have heard of a pair of slaves—their master is tired of them,_ Mech continued. _I was told they were defiant._ He inspected the contents of one cordoned off section of the building. Jerry peered over their muzzle as well, and found a draconic Digimon with midnight blue scales drying herself off. She looked up at them, smirking a knowing smile. _She is one of them,_ Mech said.

            “I’m for sale, too,” she said. Casey continued her disdainful smile at the metal Digimon. There were two types of masters, she had explained to Alice. One would be so taken aback by her boldness to speak, that he would consider her too much trouble to buy. The other would be so enraged by it that he would buy her out of vengeance.

            _He looks like he could go either way, though,_ Alice said, somewhat shaken by her partner’s flagrant display of insolence.

            “What good would a slave like that do you,” another voice asked. Mech and Casey turned to look at the interloper, a black clad figure with a silver helmet and yellow eyes. “Corbet is my name,” he said.

            “I’ve heard of you,” Mech said, unimpressed. “You own a large plantation in District Seven. A BlackWarGreymon, yes?” If his information were accurate, the Digimon was indeed a powerful person, both in business and in physical prowess. Like Mech, he was a fully evolved Digimon. “You also have a prevalence for females…”

            Casey glared at the black Digimon. “I’m afraid, _sir_ , I would not do you much good either.” She heard Corbet’s teeth grate under his helmet and his claws click against the side of his black armor. She could follow orders, work fields, and even serve in a domestic function. But she drew the line there. “Try someone who wouldn’t rather die,” she said, jabbing her thumb toward the next cubical.

            _She is stubborn,_ Jerry said, a little surprised.

            “Her wings are cut,” Mech replied to the original question. “She could not escape, nor is she a match if she were to defy me.” He sounded cold, unfeeling. But even he could not help but like this BlackExVeemon and her rebellious nature. If she could be brought into the resistance, she would be a very valuable asset.

            Alice found herself horrified, however. Were the two actually talking about what she thought they were? Could they, would they engage in such a violent act? She felt herself shrink back inside Casey, trying to get as far away as possible. That Corbet _was_ the type to seek retribution.

            And still her partner continued. “I am incapable of defying either of you,” she said, now turning her furious glower at the Machinedramon. She would long escape before either of them would have her. She may have lost her wings, but she was still faster on land than either of them in their bulky armor. “I can’t defy you because you don’t own me. And you never will.”

            The black Digimon stooped close to her, almost having to kneel, as he was head-and-shoulders above her, and looked into her eyes. He narrowed his and sniffed at her ever so slightly before he stood up to his full height again. The BlackWarGreymon growled as he stalked away.

            _I don’t like him,_ Jerry said. He felt in his gut that if he were allowed to buy this slave, he would end her. He was a violent soul, used to having what he wanted without question. If someone were to refuse him, he would blame the nearest person to him, and take out his frustration until either he became exhausted himself, or his victim became still. Mech agreed.

            Casey liked neither of them, though they had no choice in the matter. She had never heard of the black Digimon, nor had she heard of the Machinedramon. The way they spoke, though, sent shivers running down her spine. And then Corbet had sniffed at her. She wondered if he had smelled Alice inside her.

            The machine Digimon at least had no way of knowing about Alice. But if she smelled different, out of the ordinary, like she were infected with something, it might tip off any number of potential buyers. All of them would want nothing more than to curry favor with the government.

            “I intend to buy you,” Mech stated bluntly. Then he turned and walked off in search of his next acquisition. She was unmistakably one of the Digimon of whom he had heard rumors. That BlackWarGreymon would cause him trouble though. He was a rich enough, powerful enough Digimon that he might even rival Mech.

            His internal mechanisms whirred as he ran through the possible scenarios. Corbet would fail—his calculations proved that. But whether it was a hollow victory was another matter. Retribution against rivals in business, violent attacks against competitors, were not uncommon, nor were laws against it enforced. The strong conquered.

            Mech pulled out a radio and tapped a control. “Take the caravan and resupply,” he said into the speaker. The reply came out muffled, but Mech understood it well enough. He would rather risk traveling on his own than everything he had worked to build. The Digimon in his charge were workers; many of them knew little about defending themselves.

            “Resupply and leave. Go back to District Eighteen,” he ordered, and shut off the radio. They would follow orders; he was sure. It was in their interest to do so, and they knew that. His assets would be well protected in District Eighteen.

            Jerry felt surge of worry and guilt rise up within his partner as Mech ordered his caravan to abandon them. It was more like Mech had abandoned them, however. He knew better though. Mech cared for them, despite what the Digimon might say. _You did the right thing,_ Jerry reassured him.

* * *

          Michael let out a sigh of relief. The grooming, which he and Garth had endured, finally ended and the attendants had left them alone at last. They still sat in the cubical, but the washbasin had been removed and the curtains that separated them from the outside world had been drawn open, leaving them exposed the scrutiny of possible masters.

            Garth snorted, lying down with his back facing the intruding eyes of prospective buyers. He heard them stop, make their comments and ask any worker who happened to float by what the opening bid on him might be.

            _Disgusting,_ he thought sourly. Michael did not answer. Of course, the Digimon could hardly blame him. His explanation of the auction was just specific enough to satisfy the human. He hardly knew what was going on.

            At least, he thought his partner was in the dark. Michael, though, was smart enough to know better. While not able to articulate himself well, being young, he was able to condense the smattering of phrases and words into terms he could wrap his mind around. He knew what happened to his mother and father, and he knew the situation he and Garth found themselves in.

            And he heard everything that the Garurumon heard. Being a part of the Digimon had enhanced his senses, and his quiet observation of his surroundings gave him an ill feeling in the pit of his stomach. He quite agreed with his partner’s sentiment. The way the passersby spoke as if they were invisible—he knew that attitude too well.

            It was representative of someone who thought he owned the world. Indeed, much of them did believe they owned the world. He supposed, though, that it was only the little world they created in their minds. Michael imagined them all alone, surrounded by people who they saw every day, but had no real companionship with.

            _Do you think they have any friends,_ he asked suddenly.

            Garth detected a note of pity in his partner’s voice, though he could not understand why. _No, I don’t think so,_ came his answer. They were all far too absorbed in themselves to find time for any companionship beyond the physical. _Why do you ask?_

            Michael shrugged their shoulders and sighed again. _I think they’re lonely._ They bought and sold all day without ever stopping to have a conversation. He and his mother talked all the time. She would sit with him at dinner, and ask him about his day, what he did at school, if he had made friends. And she would tell him about her day and any of the funny anecdotes she picked up from the strangers she served.

            At the park, he would play for a little while, then go and sit with his mother on the bench. One time she had asked him why he did not go play with the other children. Michael told her that she looked lonely. _No one should be lonely,_ he said.

            Garth had much less sympathy. Enduring years of hard labor and beatings, among other things, he had developed a loathing for their kind. He kept his feelings in check, though, under a gruff façade, much like a suit of armor. He refused to engage in pity for their loneliness. If they had decided to forgo friendship in the name of profit, it was theirs to face the consequences.

            He answered Michael with stern “hmm” before shifting his weight. He had other things on his mind in any case. An abnormally large and armor-clad Digimon was roaming the booths—Garth could hear the metal footfalls and felt the vibrations they produced under the floor. Even now, they grew louder until, at last, the Digimon responsible, ceased his motion behind them.

            Mech gazed silently, inspecting the lupine figure, unimpressed. The length and girth of the Garurumon was several percentage points lower than he had expected. He checked his data on the Digimon, confirming that this was, indeed, the one he sought. The documentation was correct.

            Jerry might have sworn he heard Mech sigh, like an inward rolling of his eyes—a very human gesture, he thought. _What’s wrong,_ he asked. The Digimon looked fine to him. He lacked the scars of the others, seemed strong enough, and very docile.

            “Customarily, it is proper for a slave to stand in the presence of a fully evolved Digimon,” Mech said coldly. The Garurumon said nothing in in reply, though Mech caught sight of his ears twitch. “You will stand in the presence of your new master.”

            _What are you doing,_ Jerry asked horrified. He had, with his partner, inspected many of the other Digimon up for auction, but they had passed them by quickly. Either they were too docile, or too cowardly, or were too weak. Many of them, Mech had explained, would not be sold at all, and would be put to death. But he had not spoken to any of them like this. _I thought we were here to help him?_

            _I must test him._ He had heard rumors among the auction-goers, about this Digimon. He was a tempest wrapped in fur. His previous master had seemingly broken him at last, but recently he had begun to snip and bark at his fellow slaves. That had escalated to outright violence.

            Mech had to be sure the Digimon was merely strong-willed rather than psychotic. _He may appear calm, but we must determine whether he can adapt to freedom or not._ _Some, after years of servitude, have fragile minds. The slightest provocation can make them go mad._

            So he would test them. The ExVeemon from earlier proved to be a stout individual. Jerry had seen that for himself. She would no doubt have very little trouble living under her own will. But going about testing potential candidates could be tricky. Mech had to be sure.

            “I said, get on your feet!”

            The Garurumon growled, but still did not move. Garth sat stubbornly, keeping his ears angled to hear any motion the metal interloper made. _He will probably be the one to buy us,_ he told Michael. Garth had known enough slave owners to recognize the different archetypes by their demeanors.

            This one was probably a rich trade baron. Thousands of slaves served him in the manner of a king, waiting on his beck and call. Those not fit to feed him his meals were sent out to slave away, doing his bidding by loading and unloading freight at all hours. And, he thought disgustedly, even the slaves had a hierarchy. Those serving the master inside were higher than those outside; and messengers were higher still.

            As far as he was concerned, servitude—comfortable or not—was still slavery. Any Digimon who encouraged the practice was scum. So, he told himself, he would not give this potential “owner” the satisfaction of him standing.

            He turned his head, hearing the Digimon bark the order once more. His eyes widened ever so slightly as he saw the silver-clad form of the Machinedramon. “I will not stand for you,” he said simply.

            _We are in luck,_ Mech told his partner.

* * *

          Somewhere over the din, a bell rang, shrill and brassy, to announce the start of the auction. Many of the auction’s patrons had already filed out into the courtyard where workers had erected a large stage. The shops sold refreshments, and attendants to the slaveholders ran to and fro, fetching drinks and delivering messages.

            Mech watched his step carefully to avoid any unnecessary mishaps as he and Jerry made their way to the pavilion. His internals read the ambient air temperature to be hotter than normal. That was to be expected, however, as the sun shown overhead without a cloud to temper it.

            _When is the auction starting,_ Jerry asked, impatiently. He was growing uncomfortable with all the hobnobbing, trying to keep up an appearance. Jerry had quite enough of that at home. Moreover, he failed to see why it was so important to his partner. For someone so obviously powerful, it should not have mattered. Yet he sensed it did, in a conflicted sort of way. _You’re an enigma. Do you know that?_

_Merely a complex variable,_ Mech replied. He felt his mechanisms pause momentarily, startled at his own reply. Was that humor or just a malfunction? He would have to perform a diagnostic—and soon. Humor was not part of his programming, and since meeting Jerry, his routine maintenance had fallen by the wayside. Not to mention the human had given him pause to consider a great many things about his programming.

            The Machinedramon pushed the thought aside. He had business to attend to. _That bell is sounded five minutes before the auction begins,_ he told his partner. _We are interested in lots four and five._ Once again, he felt the disgust rise up in Jerry. The human had no practical sensibility.

            The two marched forward until they were only a half dozen paces from the platform—quite a ways, still, given Mech’s massive gait. But their height and the relative shortness of the growing crowd gave them a reasonable vantage point. The goings on had settled down into organized chaos by now, and without the rumbling footfalls of several giant Digimon, the messengers found it much easier to go about their masters’ business.

            Currently, Mech spied one of them approaching his position. The bulbous head of a yellow reptile bobbed along underfoot, eyes lifted just enough to avoid bumping into any of the bidders. Finally he stopped at Mech’s feet and bowed low so that he almost breathed in dust.

            Mech grunted, signaling for the Digimon to speak. “Greetings,” said the little Digimon, trying not to stammer. “My master bids you welcome District Twelve. He is the proprietor of the Kellogg Lounge.”

            The giant peered down at him, expressionless. _I’ve heard of this Kellogg before,_ he told Jerry. He had never visited though, not feeling the need to spend time in the presence of slavers any more than he needed to. His business was in freeing them, not condoning the actions of their owners.

            “Tell your master that I have prior engagements,” Mech said, returning his gaze to the platform. In any case, he had no need for such distractions. Even Corbet, whom he had developed a strong distaste for, rarely frequented the Kellogg. Many of his other business associates did, however, and habitually managed to stagger away.

            The little Digimon grunted once, recapturing Mech’s attention. “Beg pardon, sir, but my master has asked to meet you specifically. He would like to negotiate a business agreement with you, if possible.”

            Jerry barely heard him speak over the din of the growing crowd. It was thanks only to Mech’s sensitive instruments that he perceived the Digimon’s speech. He was bold, it seemed, but he carried himself like many of the slaves Jerry had seen in the holding pens.

            The bearing was off. _I don’t think he’s a slave. Look at his mannerisms._ Not that the human was any expert on the subject, but he had a good mind for people: he knew them. His father had taught him to read behavioral patterns and body language from an early age—to know when someone was bluffing or when to push an advantage was a trick his lawyer father often employed. And even though the subject of his attentions was definitely not human, Jerry understood the brash connotations of the Digimon’s insistence all too well.

            With his perception once again focused, Mech took a more detailed scan of the Digimon. His heartbeat was slow and calm, his voice well-modulated to feign anxiety, and, though he stooped in a manner that suggested subservience, there was no trace of the fidgeting common to slave-messengers.

            _Your perception surprises me,_ he told Jerry. Even the most obedient of slaves would not dare to insist _anything_. But the Digimon was well practiced at simulating servitude. _He is a former slave._

            _One of yours?_ The negative answer did not surprise Jerry. Mech would have recognized the Digimon without trouble if they had met. His partner, it seemed, was possessed of a photographic memory thanks to his mechanical nature. _Then who freed him?_

            _I intend to find out,_ Mech replied. Here was a quandary, a riddle that he had not expected. Aside from the promise of a delightful challenge to his mental faculties, Mech had also calculated the probability of an error in his memory banks. The chance of a malfunction was slim as far as mechanical issues went. A self-diagnostic on his programming revealed no errors.

            That left only the possibility that someone else had encroached upon his empire. He and Jerry had much the same thought, as well. Whoever his master was, he might be a potential ally in the coming days. “Tell your master,” Mech rumbled, “I will meet him after the auction.” The Digimon lifted his head briefly and nodded to Mech before scampering off.

            “I know that Digimon!” a familiar voice shouted. Inwardly, Jerry groaned as he spotted Corbet sauntering in their direction. The BlackWarGreymon stopped only a few feet from them and watched the yellow Digimon disappear in the crowd. “He works at the Kellogg…” Corbet turned his attention to Mech. “Though why you would be doing business there is a mystery.”

            “It is my business to conduct,” the Machinedramon said tersely, avoiding eye-contact with his rival. The auctioneer was moving to the podium on the left of the stage, calling for quiet so he could begin. A pair of guards brought out the first lot, a pitiful, scrawny excuse for a Digimon.

            The auctioneer welcomed them, jauntily, to the bazaar. Mech fazed him out, preferring to keep his attention on the Digimon still hovering close to him. This was a typical tactic used by veteran buyers, Mech explained to his partner. _They will loom nearby to distract their rivals from the auction, then step in at the last moment and pick up the sale._

            The method was shrewd, but effective. _It’s a little like sniping,_ Jerry remarked. _In my world, people will sweep in at the last second of an auction to avoid a bidding war._ Then again, if one had the means, a bidding war could also be an effective tool.

            The first lot sold with a bang of the gavel. Corbet continued his effort to make conversation. “I know you said it was none of my business, but I’m still curious,” he said, taking a moment to shine away a smudge on his armor. “What exactly do you plan to accomplish by going to the Kellogg?”

            “To satisfy my curiosity.” He sidestepped a pace, and looked back up to the dais. The second lot came out, feeble and infirm. The bidding was scarce on this one, and the gavel came down quickly, concluding the transaction and the slave was hauled away. “Were you planning on bidding?”

            “Lot four is the only one I’m interested in,” the black-clad Digimon answered. Mech knew he was interested only in proving his worth. This Digimon had a superiority complex. Mech found the idea absurd—Corbet was a strong, fighter-type Digimon, yet his interest was solely in the acquisition of wealth. It brought him to wonder why the BlackWarGreymon did not pursue a career in the arena, or in the military.

            The gavel banged a third time as another sickly Digimon was escorted back to the holding pens. “Lot four,” said the auctioneer, “is a fine example of an ExVeemon. She is a strong, lean slave, perfect for field work. We’ll start at five hundred.”

            Corbet motioned for the bid. “Five hundred. Five-fifty?” The auctioneer acknowledged another bidder to the left. Corbet eyed Mech strangely for a moment before putting down another offer. Mech ignored him. “Seven-fifty,” the auctioneer said into his microphone.

            “One thousand,” Mech said, raising his voice.

            Casey looked down from the dais to metallic gleam in the center of the crowd. She nodded toward the Machinedramon and smiled briefly at him. The gesture elicited some excited oohs from the crowd as the auctioneer called for another five hundred credit increase. A fourth bidder put his claw up, and the machine Digimon trumped it again, bringing her price to three thousand even.

            The sight caused Alice to grimace—she looked back and forth between the various Digimon, unable to decide who she liked least. _Casey? What if_ he _wins?_ That haughty black Digimon would make their lives unbearable. The idea made both of them sick.

            _They can’t own us if we don’t let them,_ Casey replied. She could eliminate most of them by increasing their desire. Eventually the bids would be so high only the most elite of Digimon could afford her. She reassured Alice with this and winked at one of the buyers.

            “Forty-five hundred!” the auctioneer shouted. Mech volunteered the funds, easily outbidding the other two remaining bidders. Their numbers dwindled and the auctioneer asked for another bid. The previous bidder refused, though, and Corbet took up the offer. “Come on now? A prize like this is worth at least five thousand!”

            “I will give five thousand, five hundred,” Mech announced over the din. The BlackWarGreymon growled at him. He had other purchases to make—Mech had seen him browsing the other pens. A Digimon like him, intelligent and diligent in his work, would not hold out much longer for a single purchase. Corbet’s limit would be fast approaching.

            The machine Digimon leaned in a little closer to his rival and brought his voice down to a low rumble. “You are an intelligent person. And I understand you have other purchases to make. Save yourself the trouble and let me end this.” Though he hated using the lives of other slaves in such fashion, he had no choice if he were to save this one. He sensed Jerry’s disgust as well. _They cannot be set free. The first rule you will learn in the Digital World is to pick your battles wisely._

            Jerry recoiled. _No!_ He never picked his battles wisely. But he was ruled the steady, if quiet whisper of his emotional nature. Maybe Mech really was a machine? But, he reasoned, he was still putting himself at risk doing this at all. It was certainly the logical way of thinking. _You can’t be serious? You’re supposed to pick the battles worth fighting, not the ones you can win!_

            Mech shook his head. He had run simulation after simulation, researched each individual, and had come to the same conclusions each time: these two were the only candidates. _There is a method to this, Jerry. Look at the others. They do not yearn for freedom, nor do they understand that they are even slaves anymore. They have resigned themselves to this fate._ It left them unable to desire anything but their masters’ wills. They were pitiful, weak, and incapable of defending themselves. They were broken.

            He looked back to Corbet, who had not turned his gaze away yet. “Unlike you, my resources are inexhaustible. I have only this and the next lot to buy.” The other began clenching his fists rhythmically, the tension in his eyes speaking louder than the auctioneer. “I could make your transactions very difficult.” In the background he heard the auctioneer call for any last bids. Fifty-five hundred credits, Mech’s last offer, was the standing bid.

            Corbet grunted once, submitting at last. “Very well,” he said through clenched teeth. He stomped off, turning back once. “You haven’t heard the last of me.”

  _Fin_


End file.
